


When in Romania

by Zeppelin_Skies



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Drama, F/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-09 14:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 70,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7805329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeppelin_Skies/pseuds/Zeppelin_Skies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While hiding in Bucharest, Bucky stumbles into a woman he could almost swear he's met before. The one thing he does know? She's not Romanian. But she could be the key to unlocking some of his past…or she could be working for HYDRA. Either way, he doesn't intend to be found. By anyone. Bucky/OC Pre-Post Civil War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Her

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt in the MCU fandom with this site (my fanfiction.net account is also under Zeppelin Skies), but I hope you enjoy!

" _Made up my mind to make a new start_  
_Going to California with an aching in my heart_  
 _Took my chances on a big jet plane_  
 _Never let them tell you that they're all the same_  
 _The sea was red and the sky was grey_  
 _Wondered how tomorrow could ever follow today_ ,"

— _Led Zeppelin, "Going to California"_

 **I:** _**Her** _

_**RUSSIA – 1991** _

When the ice thaws and his lungs work enough for him to take an audible breath, he sees several men in uniform and lab coats and thinks of nothing. Remembers nothing. A man—a commander by the look of him, holds a red book that triggers the slightest inkling of _something_ in his mind. The man utters a series of meaningless words in Russian that make his insides churn like metal cogs.

"… _One…freight car._ "

He is ready to comply.

* * *

As she's dragged onto a hard gurney and struggles against leather binds on her wrists and ankles, electrodes being connected across her forehead as a leather gag is forced into her mouth, she thinks of her mother. Clings to the one image in her mind that helps calm her breathing.

Not so much the face. That's been faded to a dull outline of long dark hair, the impressions of sadness around soft eyes. Her father's were always harsh. Cold like his hands directing her away from a building burned down by rebels. That much she knows.

Her father's clipboard hovers over her head as his older, now wrinkled hands adjusts fluid levels. She knows not to plead with him.

Fluid swirls down tubes and into her veins and it starts.

Her mother disappears.

* * *

When it's over (the walls have stopped absorbing her screams), her throat is sore and there's drops of blood from her ears staining the floor but she can breathe. Uniformed men lift her off the gurney and keep her on her feet as they make their way out of the lab and down the hall, back to her cell.

A flash of silver catches her eye and with what little awareness she has, she turns her head.

 _ **He**_ is unlike anything she's ever seen.

Tall and broad. Dark hair; long and unkempt and dripping wet. He walks almost silently in fluid motion, not mechanically, despite the metal arm.

" _Move_ ," a soldier commands her. She's stared too long.

To her surprise _**he**_ looks her way—sharp eyes boring into hers with depth that stuns her.

And she stumbles when she's shoved forward.

.

.

.

**BUCHAREST, ROMANIA – 2014**

It's been three months since he effectively disappeared. Two weeks since he first crossed Romanian borders by train. As Bucky looks out the window of his shoebox apartment to the expanse of Bucharest, while sipping coffee that tastes like shit, he considers the fact that nobody has recognized him so far as a lucky break.

He had to invest in (steal) a few long-sleeved shirts and jackets, which makes the sweltering Romanian summer a problem he didn't foresee. Though a compelling reason on its own, it's not the only reason why he would rather not leave the apartment.

The spongy bed and the yellowing walls, if a bit suffocating, are safe. The alternative is not.

But he's also hungry, and he finished the last of the peanut butter with the last of the bread.

So after finishing his coffee, he (reluctantly) throws on a jacket, grabs what little money he has from fixing his neighbor's TV and makes his way down several flights of stairs.

* * *

She's late.

" _Damn it, damn it, damn it!_ " she mutters as she nearly plows through pedestrians. The wide, busy sidewalk is filled with locals and tourists alike, rushing to hail cabs or enter shopping plazas and markets, or like her, trying to meet a daily schedule.

She shifts from heel to heel impatiently at a crosswalk and adjusts the messenger bag on her shoulder while trying not to spill hot coffee from her to-go cup.

Traffic slows to a stop and she moves with the crowd, which disperses once reaching the other side of the street. She walks brusquely around the corner of the same shabby, brown brick apartment building as every morning, and waves to Emil, a graying man in his early seventies who has lived in the building for thirty-two years and counting. He never fails to greet her with a smile. Today he stands at the bottom of the stairs with a lit cigarette in hand.

"Running late today, Lesya?" he calls jovially in Romanian. His voice is almost drowned out by a loud bus horn sounding on the narrow street behind her.

"I overslept!" she returns over her shoulder as she passes by, and for a moment takes her eyes away from her path to give Emil another retreating wave. By the time she looks ahead, she's crashing into something hard and tripping and falling onto the pavement below.

* * *

Bucky passes his neighbor at the ground floor.

"Oh. Good morning, Luke," the older man greets as he grabs several envelopes from a metal lockbox—one of several that line the walls for their respective residents.

Bucky nods in response, would've kept on his way if Emil hadn't stopped him.

"Thank you again for your help, by the way," he says, and leans toward him with a conspiring grin and a glint in his eyes. "The picture is clear as a bell! It's much easier now to ignore my wife's yapping."

Bucky's mouth twitches at something like a smile, but doesn't quite complete it.

"I will follow you out," Emil gestures to the large door ahead. "It's hot as hell, but I need a morning smoke."

Humidity hits them both the moment the door creaks open.

"Dear God," Bucky hears Emil mutter. The younger man rolls his shoulders and starts down the sidewalk. He's already down a block when he realizes he's missing his baseball cap.

He doesn't exactly _need_ it…but it helps cover his face—his second most recognizable feature.

He turns and makes it back halfway toward the apartment building when he stops.

 _It shouldn't be a problem_ , he reasons. There are almost two million people in Bucharest.

His thoughts are disrupted by a loud bus horn that grates on his ears. He turns and sees a line of cars blocking a bus stop.

"I overslept!"

A feminine voice.

He looks ahead and barely falters when a figure barrels into his chest and stumbles to the floor. A woman, petite. He tenses subconsciously, but doesn't sense a threat. The contents of her messenger bag are half strewn onto the ground. A cup of coffee hit the curb and spilled into the street.

Brown eyes glare up at him.

"Hey! What the hell is your problem?" Her accent is slightly off, her consonants more familiar sounding to him than the standard Romanian he's been hearing.

His brows furrow at her question.

"Are you just going to stare down at me?" she asks dryly. At the prod, he reaches out his right hand automatically. She gathers her belongings back into her leather bag and takes his offered hand and stands.

With her hand in his, he sees her falter slightly, her eyes growing wide. They flicker up to his and see something. What she sees, he doesn't know. But there's something about her face that stirs… _something_.

 _The eyes_.

Then she blinks, and releases his hand to straighten up her clothes—black slacks and navy blouse. Professional. She tucks a strand of dark, reddish hair, formerly in her ponytail, behind her ear.

She looks up at his face again, indiscernible emotion crossing her features.

"Sorry, I guess," she says. "For running into you. Though it didn't seem to hinder you."

He shakes his head.

"It's fine."

She checks the time on her cell phone and her eyes widen.

"Ok, well I've got to get to work," she says, and continues on her way. Over her shoulder she calls to him, "Bye!"

Bucky stands there for a few seconds longer, slightly confused. Remembers his baseball cap and,

 _Fuck it_.

He walks to a nearby market without it. He prefers outdoor markets. The different food stalls, smells, people—it's easier to blend in. Easier to pretend at being just another one of them in the throng of locals and tourists.

He rifles through plums but his thoughts drift to brown. Honey brown.

 _Those eyes_.

There was recognition there. She'd seen his face before.

So had he, he thinks. Maybe.

But maybe not. His brain is pretty fried.

After all, he only learned his real name three months ago.

* * *

"That's Lesya," Emil says, leaning back into his chair. His wife Lina pours stew into the bowl in front of Bucky. When his neighbor invited him over for dinner, he took it as an opportunity to get information (and a free meal). Nothing more.

He was here to disappear, not to make connections.

"Such a nice girl," Lina says. "Very sweet."

Bucky is skeptical, vividly remembering her glare and quick mouth.

"She is not from here originally," Emil says. "She says she came to Bucharest six years ago. From where, I don't know."

That starts to explain things, Bucky thinks. The name is Russian, not Romanian (he doesn't know how he knows that). Her accent, though fluent Romanian, held hints of the language he recognized.

"She is a psychiatrist, I believe," Lina adds. Emil nods.

"Works not far from here. She passes by every morning and says hello." He looks over at Bucky, mischief crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"She's pretty, no?"

Bucky blinks.

"Have you a lady friend, Luke?" Lina asks. Her smile is similar to her husband's, but better contained.

"No," Bucky says. He feels uncomfortable, like this couple is questioning him as they would their son, single and available. He's starting to remember these things—social paradigms, discerning daily habits from potential threatening gestures.

It's been a learning curve from those first few weeks; after walking aimlessly through the woods, a pounding in his head he couldn't shake until he was slamming it repeatedly into a tree trunk to shake the vice grip on his mind loose.

What came out felt like the main wall inside crumbling, letting certain things through but not others. Not the bulk of his memories, at least.

Occasionally one manages to slip through by different sense triggers, like seemingly innocent questions about "lady friends."

" _You just blew three bucks," a skinny blonde informs him, grinning. There's a pretty girl hanging on Bucky's arm._

" _I know," he shrugs with a grin. The other guy shakes his head, but is clearly amused._

" _Doesn't seem like it held you back any."_

He knows the words, his own face, the Captain's on a smaller body…

" _You're my friend."_

"You all right?" Emil asks. Bucky blinks again and the memory fades, but not the feeling. Like it's something he should remember _remembering_.

"Yes. I'm fine."

* * *

A week later, he runs out of food again. But he doesn't realize it until after he's spent the day cutting wood and unloading metal beams; Emil put in a good word for him at his nephew's construction company that's putting up a new apartment building a few blocks away.

Despite Bucky's stamina being well above a normal man's, his boss has been giving his crew the brunt of the heavy lifting for the few days that he's started working with them.

And it's been hard for him to sleep—dreams, memories, whatever they are, won't let him.

He stares into an empty refrigerator and sighs. All he really wants to do is shower and sleep, but there's a hole in the pit of his stomach that hasn't been filled since around noon, and it's almost sunset now.

He does shower, but also throws on a jacket (and his baseball cap) and walks to the nearest open market. It's still relatively busy though the sun is setting, the smell of meats cooking still in the air as people shop.

Bucky can't really afford meat yet, so it's rice and vegetables in his basket for now. When he gets his first real paycheck, that's the first thing he's going to splurge on.

Instead he turns over apples, searching for one or two that look ripe to him and aren't bruised. Then he spies one in the middle that looks just the right shade of red. Before he can grab it, another hand snatches it up.

He looks over in annoyance, only to falter in surprise when familiar brown eyes blink up at him.

"Oh, sorry." She smiles sheepishly and offers him the apple. "You saw it first."

He shrugs.

"You were faster," he says, and picks up a different apple. Her smile turns genuine as she looks for another one.

"Sorry about the other day, too," she says. "Snapping at you, I mean."

"You were in a hurry."

He pays the vendor and moves onto the next stand for plums and peaches. She follows him.

"True," she replies easily. "And you made me spill my coffee."

"I can't reimburse you," he says, and grabs three plums.

"I don't like plums. They have a strange texture," she shakes her head.

"They're sweet."

 _"A sweet think like you..."_ he hears in his mind and furrows his brows in confusion. The words were familiar, an echo of something...

"You like sweet things," she notes.

"Not particularly."

"I don't believe that's true."

He shoots her a look as they make their way to whole crates filled with cherries and grapes.

"You don't know me."

He watches her discreetly out of the corner of his eye to gauge her expression. There's something in her eyes that's warm, yet perceptive. Sharp, like his own.

"Maybe not," she says. "But I'm a good judge of character."

He's a little more on guard now; the recognition is there, but well-hidden. If she doesn't know who he is, she thinks she does. And it makes him wonder why snipers are not already trained on his back.

He scopes their surroundings while she picks out cherries, but there's nothing out of the ordinary—

"Here, try this." Her palm is upturned to his face and he leans back, glances at her in annoyance.

"No thanks."

"But they're good! Just try a couple," she insists, and continues to hold her hand up, parallel to his chest. Bucky almost rolls his eyes, but grabs a few cherries and pops them into his mouth. After chewing for a bit, his face involuntarily screws up in distaste.

 _I hate sour_ , he thinks. Absently he wonders what he's basing the thought on, but it's instinctual.

He stares at her when she has to hold her hand to her mouth to stifle giggles.

"Sorry," she says, and a knowing glint appears in her eyes. "But you're not in danger."

Immediately his gaze sharpens and his muscles tense.

"What?" he asks coolly, trying to tame his outward reaction.

"You just scoped the environment. Your body is coiled like a spring and your eyes keep shifting," she says. "Emil told you what I do for a living, yes?"

He relaxes…slightly.

"Walk with me? I'm not quite ready to go home yet," she says, though she has a basket of food on her arm. Bucky looks at his own, then at her, dubious and wary.

"Fine, we'll walk towards your building. I'm headed that way anyway," she smiles, and continues walking down the busy sidewalk. Sighing, he follows. Curiosity, and the prospect of getting more information out of her, eggs him on.

* * *

"So Emil says you're new to this country."

"Yeah."

"What brought you here?" she asks. He glances down at the laminated ID card clipped to her well-fitted blazer. **_Lesya Belevich._**

"I could ask the same thing," he replies.

She glances down at her ID and smiles, but it's hollow somehow, he notices.

"You're right," she says. "I left Moscow a long time ago. I ended up here after sorting myself out, getting an education, all that."

"Why a shrink?" Bucky asks. She looks up at him thoughtfully.

"I like trying to understand how people think, how they feel," she says. "And I want to help them."

His eyes meet hers.

"Do you?" he asks, then elaborates, "…help them."

She thinks for a moment.

"I think so. People's problems don't vanish over night because they sit and talk to me for bit," she explains. "It's in pieces at a time, parts of things that get resolved and restored in their minds and in their lives. The ones that get that become a little more at peace."

She shrugs and smiles.

"If I can do that, then that's all that matters."

They're standing in front of Bucky's apartment building before he realizes.

"You didn't tell me your name," she says. He debates with himself.

He still believes she recognized him, but for some reason isn't threatened by him and hasn't called the police. She can't be HYDRA then, but she might be formerly SHIELD. Or something else entirely. But he doesn't have to blow his cover, not while he can keep an eye on her until he can figure out who she really is.

"Luke," he replies, and heads up the stairs to the front door. Despite himself, he looks back and watches her walk away, until her figure disappears around the street corner.

Bucky looks skyward and sighs. Not even four months on his own and things are complicated.

_Shit._

* * *

When his lack of sleep makes him late to work one morning, he starts setting his alarm half an hour earlier, gets up and makes shit coffee and leaves for work in his usual dark green jacket, despite the fact that it's in the high 80s outside and only getting hotter in the summer.

Consequently, he sees her coming around the corner at a brisk pace. Her morning coffee is in a stainless steel to-go mug this time.

"You're up early this morning," she says in greeting.

"You're on time," he retorts. She smiles wryly. But when she truly sees his face, her expression turns to one of concern. "You look tired."

"Long night," he replies. They fall into step with each other down the sidewalk.

"Coffee is the only thing that gets me out of bed in the morning." She raises her mug, he raises a brow.

"Well, not the only thing," she amends. "Ice water to the face also works, but I prefer this."

"Both don't sound inviting," he says. He's had his fill of cold, which is half the reason he's willing to put up with the sweltering heat.

Bucky notices out of the corner of his eye when she looks over at him curiously.

"You don't like coffee?"

He shrugs. The caffeine does its job, but he can't help but think (with vague echoes of memory) that it should taste as good as it smells when it brews from the old, leaky coffee maker a previous tenant left behind. Instead, it tastes metallic and almost stale.

"You should try mine then. It's homemade, but if there's one thing I splurge on, it's good coffee grounds," she says with a smile, and offers it to him. "Two spoonfuls of sugar and cream."

Bucky glances down at it, then back up at her.

 _Sugar._ That's what he was missing. Not that he can afford it, anyway.

"This is your coffee mug," he says.

"I'm not _giving_ it to you. I'm giving you the coffee inside and _lending_ you the mug," she clarifies with a grin. "The office has a coffee maker. Besides, you need to be awake for all that heavy lifting."

_How did she know…_

Then he sighs. His neighbor needs to learn to keep other people's business to himself.

"Old man," he murmurs.

"Emil," she corrects, and again offers him the mug. Reluctantly, he takes it.

"Go ahead and try it if you want. I only took a couple sips."

It's better than the grounds he bought for next to nothing, but that's not saying much. The sugar and cream does make a difference though.

He nods anyway, and he can't help but discreetly continue watching her smile to herself.

They walk in silence the rest of the way to the construction site gate, but it's not unpleasant with the sounds of the morning traffic covering for them.

"What are you building?" she asks, looking over at the groups of men already working inside the gate.

"An apartment complex. We're setting the foundation," Bucky replies.

"Hmm. When it's done I may apply for one. It would bring me closer to work," she says.

"Is it much farther?" he asks.

"No. It's that flat building down there." She points across the street to the far corner of a four-way intersection. It's not quite on the corner, but next to a large automotive corporation headquarters.

"Luke! Are you coming into work, or what?" a man from his crew calls. Andrei. He and Julian and Vali amble over, not strictly because of him, Bucky thinks.

"Yeah," he replies, annoyed at their crowding.

"I'll see you later," she says, and smiles as they both turn to go their separate ways. Or would have if Andrei hadn't clapped Bucky on his non-metallic shoulder.

"Now who is this? Your girlfriend?"

"No," Bucky says flatly. He itches to twist and break the hand clasped hard on his shoulder; half from instinct bred from his training, half because he doesn't particularly like the man. He often lies to their boss about his work hours, and is such a heavy smoker that you smell him long before you have to catch sight of him.

Julian and Vali aren't much better. They're hard workers, but they fall in line to Andrei whenever the man wants to cut corners on construction tasks. Bucky is nothing if not efficient, and is used to having no other choice but perfection, which means cutting corners is not an option either. No matter how appealing after a ten-hour day of cutting and hauling wood and working with power tools.

Bucky's eyes glance at her as she introduces herself to all of them.

"Nice to meet you all, but I do have to go," she says apologetically, and waves goodbye. Her eyes linger on Bucky. "Bye!"

All three men's gazes trail after her, but there's a glint in Andrei's that makes Bucky frown.

"Nice friend," he says, and claps Bucky's shoulder again. "Maybe next time she'll stick around longer."

 _Don't hold your breath_ , Bucky thinks, then immediately wonders why he thought it.

"We're not friends," he says instead. Andrei scoffs.

"Sure."

* * *

Their morning go on like this for the next few weeks. With each one he gathers more information about her, besides what research he's able to do on his own from the computers at a public library (he doesn't have a phone or technology of any kind in his apartment that can be traced).

She earned her degrees from a Ukrainian university and transferred from a psychiatric practice there to Bucharest six years ago, but is originally from Moscow. There's nothing he can find on the internet about her family, where she lived specifically, nothing.

But from the woman herself he learns quite a bit. She loves sleeping in, reading, watching old movies, prefers listening to music on a record player, and loves pastries of any kind. She also lives alone.

"I'm thinking about getting a cat," she says, and hands him his cup of coffee before sipping at hers. She's gotten into the habit of bringing one for him every morning.

"Don't they…shed? Rip up furniture?" he asks. The thought comes instinctively when she mentions the animal, along with a flash of memory of a grey and white stray that begged hungrily every morning, rubbing herself against his legs when he brought out a saucer of milk. He wasn't allowed to bring her inside the house though...

 _"They shed, and they get into everything!"_ A woman's voice he can't place...

" Well yes, but it's either that or stare at my empty bed, my single toothbrush and two dining chairs for eternity."

Bucky comes back to himself with an amused glance in her direction.

"Your place fits _two_ chairs?" he asks. She shoots him a dry look.

"Ha-ha," she mocks.

"Dropping him off for us again, Lesya?" Andrei asks when they get to the site gate. He's standing outside of it, smoking.

"That shit will kill you one day," she says, waving the acrid smell of smoke out of her general proximity, without success.

"Not if operating the forklift kills me first," he retorts. "Vali fucked with it yesterday while I was on break and messed up the gears."

But he adds with a smile, "Ah, it's all in good fun."

She looks uncertain, but takes his word for it.

"I've got to go. I'll see you, Luke," she says, and turns to leave.

"What, no goodbye kiss?" Andrei asks. Her retreating smile is ambiguous at best.

Andrei laughs at Bucky's flat look.

"I'm kidding, my friend. That stoney face is impressive though," Andrei says. But something flickers in his eyes, and Bucky sees it, just for a moment and it's gone.

_Why do I care?_

For all he knows, she could be a spy, or a former SHIELD operative. She could be working for any number of governments that want him killed, or at the very least incarcerated.

_Who is she?_

It's the only question he really cares about where she is concerned. If anyone impedes that, he'll deal with them however he has to.

* * *

That day he's one of the last ones to leave the site. It's usually Andrei and Julian who lock up the main gate, but the man claimed he hurt his back and told Julian to recruit Bucky if he really needed help.

It was dark by the time the two left in opposite directions heading home. There's not that much traffic and fewer pedestrians.

He passes a restaurant and the pleasant savory smells hit his nose. He stops for a moment and considers going inside, maybe get something to-go since the last thing he wants to do is cook. He's able to afford it now that he's getting paid (under the table but still getting paid).

But he pauses when his advanced hearing picks up something faint. A distant conversation. One—two voices. He tilts his head, realizes it's coming from the alleyway up ahead.

" _Just...don't scream. Unless you can't help it._ "

Realization hits him and his muscles automatically tense.

" _ **Stop.**_ "

Bucky starts at a dead run, hesitates only at the edge of the dark alley when he sees her behind a bulk of a man standing in front of her, his head swaying until her eyes—glowing unnaturally amber in the darkness—catch Bucky's.

It's a moment of distraction that lets the man charge forward with a fist that catches her right below the eye and a kick to the ribs that sends her the rest of the way to the floor. But that's all he gets in before Bucky has him by the shirt and throws him at the opposite wall. His back hits hard enough that he doubles over coughing and laughing.

"I have the worst luck," he grins, and throws a punch that Bucky could've seen coming with his eyes closed. He blocks with his left arm, which fractures Andrei's. The other man recoils holding his arm. Bucky...doesn't _want_ to kill him.

He doesn't want to add to the faces he sees at night, to continue being used by _them_.

" _Gah..._ what the fuck?" he hisses, but his eyes widen when Bucky's foot makes contact with his sternum. He crashes back into the wall, but Bucky's human hand keeps him up. The other man's eyes widen at seeing a flash of silver under Bucky's sleeve.

_I don't want to do it anymore..._

But he can't be found, either.

It only takes one more solid punch with solid metal and it's over when Andrei's broken skull hits the ground. Bucky stares down at the ground, feeling numb.

"Thank you…but you didn't have to kill him."

Bucky looks over his shoulder at her. She's holding her side and he knows she's in pain, just like he knows she saw exactly what happened, how it happened. But it's not fear in her eyes, just gratitude and regret for the death in front of her.

"You blew your cover as much as I did mine," he says. She sighs and stares down at the body.

"Someone will see him here."

Bucky looks around until his gaze catches a sewer hatch.

* * *

Her apartment isn't what he imagined, but it makes sense. It's bigger than his, with a dining table in the kitchen, a cluttered living room, and a narrow hallway that probably has a bathroom and bedroom. There aren't many decorations, but there are plenty of books and magazines and newspapers, and a whole shelf full of DVDs and VHS tapes.

Bucky guides her over to the small, gray couch and asks her if there's ice in the freezer.

"Top left," she says, smiling gratefully. He comes back with a wad of ice chunks swathed in a hand towel he found in the kitchen and hands it to her. She presses it to her swollen cheek.

"The game is over then, I guess," she says with a hollow smile.

"You knew who I was the second you saw me," he states.

"I knew your face," she replies. "I know the world is afraid of you."

"And you're not?" he asks. She looks up at him thoughtfully.

"Not at the moment."

His expression sharpens slightly.

"Then who are you?" he finally asks. She inhales deeply, lets her hand fall to her lap, and meets his eyes.

"The same people who used you, used me too," she says in Russian. "My name is Milena Malikov, and thanks to my father and HYDRA's unit in the Soviet Union, I'm an empath."


	2. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation: "păpuşă," Romanian for "doll."

" _Many times I've gazed along the open road_ _  
__Many times I've lied, many times I've listened,_ _  
__Many times I've wondered how much there is to know._ _  
__Mellow is the man, who knows what he's been missing;_ _  
__Many, many men, can't see the open road._ _  
__Many is a word that only leaves you guessing,_ _  
__Guessing 'bout a thing you really ought to know_ _,"_

— _Led Zeppelin, "Over the Hills and Far Away"_

**II:** **Trust**

_**One Hour Ago** _

She knows he's following her after she gets one block past the construction site. She feels his intent radiating off of him.

Once they pass the dry-cleaners next to the restaurant, she diverts into an alley and turns to face him, crossing her arms.

"Making it a little too easy, don't you think?" Andrei asks as he walks toward her. Milena almost rolls her eyes. For a normal woman, it _would_ be stupid to let someone corner you.

"If you were smart, you would run before I call the police." She slides out her phone from her pocket and allows her thumb to hover over the emergency button. She's prepared, but knows she won't need it.

"You know, the second I saw you I thought," he snaps his fingers, all the while closing her in towards the brick wall. "That's something I gotta have."

"Why didn't you try _asking_ ," she snaps. He just laughs.

"Your eyes were never on me, were they?" he asks with a knowing smirk and predatory eyes. "Doesn't really matter, _păpuşă_. Just…don't scream."

Then he shrugs and reaches out a hand for her.

"Unless you can't help it."

" _ **Stop**_ **.** " She backs away and holds his eyes firmly with hers, projecting a bout of confusion to his mind. Andrei stops, he looks around him languidly.

"Do you know where you are?" she asks. His stare is unfocused, wide and almost glassy.

He raises a hand to his head and squints in confusion as the world around him blurs. It's hard to think, even to remember what he's doing here in the dark. But...the woman there, the woman in front of him...he's pretty sure it's her fault.

"The fuck," he blinks furiously to try and clear his vision and his head, but the haze is only getting worse. "...W-what _is_ this?"

Milena hears footfalls echoing ahead, just a little, but her gaze shifts over Andrei's shoulder and she sees him, blue eyes piercing and angry.

The distraction is just long enough for a fist to come her way, and really, she should've known better than to look away.

_**.** _

_**.** _

_**.** _

_**One Hour Later** _

"I sense people's emotions and can project them onto others, fake or my own," she says. They speak in Russian to each other now, since it's more familiar to both of them. "The connection is stronger through touch."

His reaction is better than she hoped for. He seems thoughtful.

And he is; he wonders how much he should believe her.

"I also know when someone tells me a lie," she smiles. "Like when you said your name was Luke."

Bucky nods wryly and nearly sighs. He debates with himself what to tell her, what he can trust her with.

"James…Barnes," he says. According to the Smithsonian Museum, at least. But it's the one thing that this brain truly recognizes.

"James, then. Is that what would you like me to call you?" Milena asks.

"No," he replies slowly. James sounds...wrong.

"Then what should I call you?"

"…Bucky," he says eventually.

"Bucky," she tries, smiling at the odd nickname that sounds so inherently American. She doesn't question it though, even if it's slightly difficult for her to get out, being more accustomed to Slavic pronunciations.

"…How do we know each other?" he asks.

"It's…tricky," she says. "Would you mind if I…showed you?"

He quirks a brow at her.

"What?"

"My father was Mikhail Malikov. You may remember him," she sighs. The name triggers something in Bucky's head, but he doesn't get much out of it. It starts to hurt when he actively tries to figure things out, concentrates too hard on something he's missing, like when he thinks of the Captain.

"HYDRA recruited him to alter what remained from experimentation…after their success with the Winter Soldier," she explains, bringing him out of _that_ thought. Instead it catapults him into another, darker one. "There was little to work with that hadn't been used up by Zola, but they were able to create something weaker from it using other chemicals. I was my father's lab assistant, since I was young."

She looks down at her arms and still feels the needle marks.

"I was twenty-five when they ran out of test subjects," she continues, not meeting his eyes. "The result was a longer lifespan, and empathic abilities with telepathic elements. No super strength, but I'm a little more durable than average."

She points to her cheek that no longer looks swollen. The bruise will be gone in a few minutes.

"I can access memories linked to strong emotions, and show others my own. The catch is I can't always control how much either one of us will see once the connection is open, kind of like when you sometimes can't control what you remember."

So what she is offering is more than just information, he realizes. She's offering a peek into her own mind, her trust. In _him_ of all people.

"How do I know what I see will be the real thing?" he asks. Milena quirks a smile.

"I'm not _that_ good. It takes a lot to cast illusions," she says. "Only true telepaths can do that. I just focus, dull, or impart what's already there."

Bucky is still a little skeptical.

"How do I know you won't go digging into _my_ head?" he asks. She then becomes more serious than he's ever seen her.

"I can only give you my word that I would never go into someone else's mind without their permission," she says. "I could right now, if I wanted to. Physical contact just makes it easier."

It's a good thing he has developed a skill for reading lies, because he doesn't think she could tell one even if she wanted to. For the past month, anything she ever told him was in her eyes when she said it.

Right now is no different.

"Why would you want to do this?" he asks. How does she benefit? He has nothing to offer her in exchange.

"I know you could hurt me, if you wanted to," Milena replies. "Instead you protected me."

She looks away as something dark passes in her eyes.

"The least I can do is try to give you some clarity," she finishes.

He doesn't mean to stare, but she has a way of surprising him when he least expects it. Eventually he blinks, and asks,

"How does it work?"

She reaches out and gently takes his right hand. Hers is cold from the ice.

"Take long, normal breaths, and relax. Close your eyes."

Bucky breathes in once, lets it out, and the second he closes his eyes he's somewhere else entirely.

_He takes the vitals of drugged men on cots and follows a tall, aging man through the facility. Inside, he feels cold and wrong because they wear enemy colors but they're in pain._

_He's not allowed to help them._

_._

_._

_He's a little taller, no freer from the walls he hasn't escaped in over ten years. He's just seen grown men rip themselves apart as they were destroyed from the inside out, and there's nothing left in his stomach but he can't stop throwing up and shivering—until uniformed men come to his room and escort him to his father, who waits in the testing lab._

_The mess from that morning is mostly cleaned up._

" _What's wrong, Father?"_

" _I'm afraid, we are in need of a volunteer, Lena."_

_._

_._

_Soviet soldiers lift him off a gurney and drag him out of the lab and down the hall._

_A flash of silver catches his eye and with what little awareness he has, he turns his head._

_There's a man he's never seen before._

_Tall and broad. Dark hair; long and unkempt and dripping wet. He walks almost silently in fluid motion, not mechanically, despite the metal arm._

" _Move," a soldier commands._

_**He** _ _looks over—sharp and assessing._

_He stumbles when he's shoved forward._

_._

_._

_It's the final dose, but they've gone too far. It's liquid fire in his veins, threatening to explode in his brain and he doesn't think he's going to be able to hold on much more. It feels like is skin is being carved off and there's molten lava in his brain._

_Father makes notes on a clipboard. Other men in lab coats turn knobs and measure vitals._

_Screams stain the walls, and he just wants them all to_ _**stop stop STOP** _ _. The sheer force of his agony explodes the test tubes and monitors, and the men around him are doubled over. The pain in his head is still unbearable. He feels their pain and fear like his own—can't tell the difference, can't move until the room is quiet. He looks down._

_The doctors, Father…their eyes are empty._

_He runs._

_Anyone who gets in his way is hit with a wave of his anger and fear and is incapacitated._

_He gets to a long hallway and ducks past other Soviet soldiers acting as security, peaks around a corner and sees the metal-armed man being placed into a cryo-chamber. He remembers the name—the Winter Soldier. Piercing blue eyes find brown, and there's an instant of recognition there before the ice freezes._

_He rounds a corner and makes his escape through a door no one thought he knew was there._

_Fresh air greets him._

* * *

When Bucky opens his eyes, he realizes that he's shaking and sweating, both his hands are pressed against Milena's cheeks and she breathes just as hard with her hands gripping his. Tears are running down from the corners of her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she pants. "Strong negative emotions tend to be…powerful."

He shudders, but slides his thumbs under her eyes to wipe away her tears without really thinking about it. "So…you too, I guess."

Her lower lip trembles, and she lowers her head to his chest. His hands slide down to her upper arms.

"I sorry I let you stay there," she mumbles.

"It doesn't matter," he says. She would've been caught and he wouldn't have fought against their hold even if she had unfrozen him. More than likely he would have helped them recapture her.

For a while the only sounds that break the quiet is their breathing returning to normal.

Until Milena sighs and pulls away from him, looking up at him with a tired smile.

"Want to stay for dinner?"

* * *

"This tastes…different when I make it."

"I've had more practice," she says. She then scoops potatoes and beef into her mouth and drowns it out with a tall beer. "I probably spend way too much time watching those dumb cook-off shows…I dunno. Always thought culinary school would be fun."

Continuing to observe his surroundings, he soaks in information that can be found everywhere—shelves packed with books, books on the end tables on either side of the couch, magazines under the coffee table…

"You seem to like…reading."

"After being in that place for almost twenty years with only the basics of reading, writing and arithmetic, there wasn't anything I wasn't willing to read. To _learn_ really," she says. "Whatever they did, it allowed me to comprehend things easier. So…when I escaped to the Ukraine, I worked at a library for a while. Studied as much as I could until I could apply for college scholarships…I even got to study abroad in America."

Bucky ruminates over this while he eats, until curiosity has him asking something he's been wondering since they met.

"Why didn't you run? Hell, why didn't you go to the police when you recognized me?"

Milena sighs.

"I watch the news. I knew you were dangerous, especially after Black Widow let the SHIELD and HYDRA files loose. But when we first met," she trails, her gaze falling to the hand he offered her. "I felt your confusion. A sense of aimlessness…it's what I felt when I fled my…when I fled Russia."

Bucky chews thoughtfully.

"What made you think I wouldn't kill you the next time I saw you," he asks.

"If you had killing intent, I would've sensed it," she says plainly. "They're obviously not controlling you anymore."

"Doesn't change the fact that I'm…" Bucky trails, his expression serious. The word he's looking for is _murderer_ , but for some reason he can't say that and look at her.

"I _am_ dangerous," he says. "And people are looking for me."

"Is that you're way of saying I should distance myself?" she asks with a smile.

"For your own good." He doesn't share her smile.

"Look, punching through walls I can't do," she says, "But I may be able to help you access your memories. It's part of what I do for a living…plus other stuff."

Bucky sighs heavily.

"It's not a good idea, Milena."

Poking into his brain could have hazardous results.

"Like it or not, right now I'm the only friend you've got," she grins.

He looks at her skeptically.

_"I'm not gunna fight you_ … _you're my friend."_

That stupid blonde he still can't get out of his head.

The idiot who dropped his shield in front of someone trying to kill him. Bucky now _knows_ why, but he has to wonder…

_Is that what a friend is?_

Someone who…believes in the person they knew, believes they can still be that person again.

Or like this woman, believe a weapon can be a man again.

"Right?" Milena prods, tilting her head at him.

Bucky looks away from her smile, but can't help but feel warm (and stop his mouth from twitching) at hearing her nice laugh.

.

.

.

_**FIVE MONTHS LATER** _

They watch the Avengers and Ultron destroy Sokovia on the Friday afternoon news.

"When I was in America, I heard about SHIELD," Milena says. "This is why I never joined."

"SHIELD has been disbanded for a year," Bucky points out. And he helped do it.

"But the Avengers are a product of it, and so is this thing, Ultron," she says. "HYDRA used them just the same."

"They want to make peace, Mila. There's collateral damage on both sides of the coin."

"Yes, but when does it become too much?"

* * *

"So, that's your friend?" Milena asks when it's over, and a journalist interviews Captain America about the previous day's events.

"I knew him," Bucky shrugs.

"But you're not sure what he is to you," she finishes. She smiles when he doesn't say anything.

"You'll figure it out in time," she says. He looks over at her.

"How long has it been since you left Russia?"

"Almost twenty-five years," she says. "I look good for being in my fifties."

"I'm even older than you," he remarks.

"How old, I wonder."

He looks down thoughtfully.

"I think I was born in 1917." Again, according to that museum exhibit.

Milena whistles lowly.

"You're an old, old man."

Bucky raises a brow at her, thinking her a bit hypocritical.

"Doesn't hitting your fifties qualify you as an old maid?"

She scoffs and elbows him in the side even though she knows it doesn't hurt him. She's noticed how as his knowledge of the world around him continues to grow, his sense of humor seems to be improving. Just like there's a correlation between his binge-watching of historical documentaries and trying to (never unsuccessfully) stump her with obscure facts. She can tell he's proud of himself for knowing them.

"You know what we should do?"

"Turn this off, for one thing." Bucky picks up the remote and shuts off the TV. He's been getting addicted to it ever since he started coming over to Milena's apartment for dinner after work. Friday nights are reserved for ordering take-out and catching up on the greatest movies of the past few decades.

"We should go out tomorrow. There are so many museums in Bucharest, or we could go to one of the big shopping malls," she suggests. "All you do is work and eat and watch my TV."

"I shouldn't. At least not to any museums," he says. "It's a much more open area, and I'm pretty sure I've…been here before. Most likely here in the capital."

That's probably true, Milena thinks. It's a bleak thought if he completed _missions_ here, and the mere possibility of it (which is high if he even vaguely remembers) has her willing to push it aside if it means lighting up the atmosphere she unintentionally darkened.

"Hmm, well what about the movies then? Or the circus. Oh! You like music. There are a lot of live bands."

He likes _her_ music. The collection of records she has dates back to the forties all the way to current from all different genres. He finds he likes classic rock and American 30s and 40s hits, though. The latter is…familiar. Almost comforting.

As thunder rolls outside, signaling the rain that's been in the forecast for a week, he can't help but think he's been occupying too much of her time the past few months. She had a life before he came—a real life.

"Do you ever go out with...other friends?" he asks, only because if she really wants to go out, it should be with them. "It would be better if I didn't attract attention to myself."

Her gaze avoids his subtly, but he notices the shift.

"Yeah. I mean, I go to lunch with my co-workers sometimes. They're nice people, I just…" she smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Letting people get too close runs the risk of them finding out what I am. I've moved around a couple times, used another name before Lesya."

She sighs, but then brightens.

"But my job helps me connect with people in a positive way, so...it's enough really."

Bucky studies her for a moment, able to read behind the lines. "You're not a 'what'...you're a person."

When she sends him a knowing look, his eyes narrow.

"I'm...different," he says. "You haven't hurt people."

She tilts her head at him, and suddenly he feels like an idiot.

"Intentionally," he adds. She hadn't known what she was doing when she killed her father and his team. "That's different."

"Is it?" she asks.

He doesn't like the look in her eyes. But she lets out a heavy breath and it's gone.

"So what movie are we watching?"

* * *

They end up deciding on _The Godfather_ in English, just because Milena prefers to watch movies in the language of their origin (with subtitles if she can't understand it). Also, she notices Bucky is more comfortable listening and watching things in English. She wonders if he prefers speaking in it too. She's been exceedingly more curious about who he was ever since she learned about James Buchanan Barnes, the American war hero. She's been helping him research himself further with the help of the internet (but also has been doing plenty of digging on her own). She wonders how much of him now is the same man from back then.

Almost halfway through the movie she sees him nodding off. Not because he's bored—in the beginning she could tell he was invested in the mafia family dynamic and the dialogue. But he works hard, and she knows he doesn't get much sleep (he's told her as much).

So she pulls a blanket that she drapes on the back of the couch for times like this, and tosses it over his face. From the corner of her eye, she watches him pull it off and give her a flat look. But she feels his amusement.

He fingers the material that she knows is soft. It's her favorite one.

He drapes it over his lap when he thinks she isn't looking.

Another half-hour and she feels a weight on her shoulder. Slowly she turns her head and sees that he fell completely asleep.

Milena feels his warm breath on her arm and blushes.

_Does he trust me this much?_

Because it _is_ a form of trust, she realizes. She wouldn't have thought it possible, not in a million years if what she heard from what happened in Washington D.C. was true.

It makes her smile. She reaches out her hand and brushes a few strands of hair away from his closed eyes—eyes that are the most piercing shade of gray-blue she's ever seen.

Her fingers trail softly down his strong jaw, until she catches herself and flushes again.

_What the hell am I thinking?_ She snatches her hand away at the possibility of accidentally waking him up.

Milena knows her emotions better than most people know themselves. She's genetically altered to discern them and detect what lies underneath.

_But no_ , she tells herself. _No._

He's the first person she's actually been able to talk about her past with, who hasn't been afraid of her. She feels a connection to him because of it, that's all.

_Lie._

She restrains a sigh. Maybe there's more to it, but…with what he's been through, the last thing he needs is her complicating his life even more than she already has.

The sound of heavy rain hits the kitchen windows as Michael asks Kay to marry him, and even though Bucky's metal arm presses into her side, she's comfortable tucked in the corner of the couch.

By the time the credits roll, her eyes are heavy and her will to do what she should do (wake Bucky up and let him stay the night on the couch if he wants) is weak.

She's already halfway asleep when her eyes close.

.

.

" _We are going to make you a new man," the scientist tells him, though he's only half-coherent and wishes he had the strength to kill every last one of them._

" _No—not a man," the scientist amends. "The best weapon ever made."_

_._

_._

Bucky wakes up above her on the couch, holding her wrists in a grip that he's surprised hasn't crushed her bones.

" _It's me, it's me_ ," she says in English. It throws him off, but he's brought to his senses immediately. He lets her go and tries to lean back on his knees, away from her personal space, but she clings to his hands.

Suddenly he's filled with a calm that helps him breathe slower, hear his own heartbeat. When he sees that her eyes are glowing amber gold around dark irises he realizes what she's doing.

" _I'm sorry,_ " he replies back in English. Hers is accented lightly, but she has a good grasp of the language, like her Romanian. He's too busy shaking and hating himself for nearly hurting her to really notice though. "I didn't mean to…fall asleep."

He lets their hands fall between them. The contact keeps him grounded.

"When this happens…what do you dream?" Milena asks more naturally in Russian. He sighs heavily at the question. He doesn't want to answer, but he thinks at this point, maybe he owes her an explanation even if he knows she can probably guess.

"Things they did…the things I've done."

"Will you…will you let me see?" she asks. To say it surprises him would be an understatement.

"Why would you—"

"I can dull them—the nightmares. For a time, anyway," she says earnestly. "Please, let me do this for you."

Bucky stares at her face and not for the first time, wonders at her kindness. It's a little overwhelming, but at the same time he feels warm. She makes him _feel_ again, he realizes, and he craves it as much as he wants his memories back.

"Mila," he says, swallowing, "I'm not worth it."

Her eyes, returned to honey brown, lock with his.

"You're not a machine. You're not a loaded gun. You're a man," she says. "You think and feel, just as deeply as anyone else. So to me, it's very worth it."

His eyes widen.

" _I'm with you 'til the end of the line."_ He doesn't know why he's reminded of the Captain, but it feels right.

Hesitantly, Bucky brings her hands to his face and takes a few deep breaths, closing his eyes.

When she's done, emotionally spent, they lay on the couch with his head pillowed against her stomach and sleep, undisturbed until morning.

* * *

"I thought you said this was a restaurant," Bucky says.

"I said there's a restaurant _attached_."

It's really a dance club, though a nice one, not some kind of dive. But he has no idea what she is thinking.

Suddenly he realizes why she's dressed up more than usual—a slim black dress that stops a few inches above the knee and dark red heels. He's never seen her in a dress, but…it suites her.

Bucky rolls his eyes and turns to walk back the way they came, but her arms slide around his metal one and tug him back. He catches a pleasant whiff of perfume.

"Come on, this'll be good for you," Milena says, smiling brightly. "You should meet people, mingle."

He shoots her a look.

"The last thing I need to do is _mingle_ ," he says flatly.

"Come on, it'll be fun," she hedges, mischief in her eyes. "We can find out if you like to dance."

.

.

.

As it turns out, they don't find out if he can dance. But the restaurant part of the place (what Milena _actually_ got him there for) was pretty nice, with good food that was surprisingly affordable.

"I can't wait to get out of these heels. They're _killing_ me," Milena says on the way back.

Ever since the night Andrei assaulted her (the police still hasn't found his body), Bucky has taken to walking her home from work, even if it means walking back to his apartment even later. That's the main reason she cooks for him, also because his job doesn't pay very well and she knows he can't always afford more than rice, vegetables, and some plums.

His mouth twitches at an amused smirk.

"Why'd you wear 'em then?"

"I don't know," she grumbles. "I wanted to feel like a woman for once, I guess."

Bucky glances over at her, frowning. Does she ever _not_?

"What do you mean?" he asks. She looks up at him, probably sensing his confusion.

"Oh," she says, her face lighting with realization. "Don't worry about it."

It's not that she has a problem with the way she looks. She's just never been one for skirts or high heels or flowery, frilly things the Bucky Barnes from the 1940s might be more familiar with. That's why when they finally make it up to her apartment she shucks her heels and plops down on the couch.

"You want some coffee?" she asks.

"Stay there, I've got it."

It's a testament to how comfortable they've gotten that he knows her kitchen as well as she does. But it's also things like this that remind her how considerate he can be.

She knows he doesn't consider himself a… _good_ person, but he's actually kind in his own quiet way. He also has a newly acquired sense of humor that has a way of making her laugh and smile at the weirdest times, even after having the roughest day with a difficult patient. She thinks (hopes) it's his old personality peeking through underneath all the trauma of what his mind has withstood.

She smiles absently and looks over at her record collection. Another thought makes her smile turn into a grin.

_Maybe he would've danced if they'd been playing music he recognized._

From what she could hear from the band playing, it was something modern she couldn't really pinpoint the genre of. Bucky didn't seem too interested, and neither was she to be honest.

She flips through what she has to see if there's anything he hasn't heard yet.

_Aha!_

She went to a music store last weekend and found _Popular Music of the 40s_ on sale, at the bottom of a pile in the section of American CDs and vinyl.

"Bucky, come 'ere."

"What?" he asks without turning around. He was just finishing setting up the percolator.

Once she sets the needle down, the room is filled with the cheerful bounce of some instrumental dance music. She turns to Bucky with a smile, only to pause at the look on his face.

"Does it sound familiar?" she asks. After a few seconds of staring out blankly, he seems to return to himself and nods, his brows furrowing a little.

"Some kind of party," he says with a smile. She feels his nostalgia. "I was dancing with someone."

"A girl," she teases. He shoots her an amused look.

"My sister," he replies.

"What's her name?" Milena asks. His smile becomes warmer as remembering her face becomes easier; soft, gently rounded features, honest (most of the time), with a twinkle of mischief that he thinks ran in the family.

"Rebecca…Becky."

Milena lays a supportive hand on his arm, earning his attention.

"You remember your family?" she asks hopefully.

"Vaguely," he says.

"What did she look like?" Milena encourages. Bucky thinks to that memory of them dancing.

_He was in uniform, back home for a week before being stationed. It was his last home-cooked meal from his mother, sitting with his parents and his sister, and Steve Rogers was sitting next to him._

_Music is playing in the background when he tells them where the army is sending him. Becky, no more than ten years old, tears up. His heart breaking a little, he gets up and takes her hand in his, getting her out of her chair and into the living room where the record player sings._

" _Come on, no more crying tonight. All right?" he says with a smile, and twirls her around until she starts giggling and falls into his arms. He rocks them back and forth._

" _When're you coming back?" she sniffs. He looks down at the top of her head and holds her a little tighter._

" _It might be a while," he admits. "But make sure you write to me, kay? I might not always get a chance to send one back to you, but hearing from you will make it better while I'm over there."_

_Still sniffling, she nods._

" _Okay."_

He never did get back.

Bucky grasps Milena's hand, smaller and softer than his own. It's the second thing he likes most about her, how gentle her hands are.

"She had small hands," he says slowly. "Long brown hair, browner than yours. Curlier too."

"She sounds pretty," Milena smiles softly.

He looks up at her face—what he likes most about her; if he wants to know what she's thinking, all he has to do is look into those brown eyes.

Behind them the song changes to something slower, a ballad he's heard before. From the look on her face, she knows it too.

"This is—"

"Mel Tormé," he finishes, surprising both of them.

" _You're getting to be a habit with me_ ," Milena sings along in English, smiling and bobbing gently to the beat.

But her smile falters when his hand slips out of hers to rest on her waist. He offers his metal hand with a slight grin on his face and an unspoken question in the gesture.

She grasps his hand with a shy smile, and he sways them back and forth in time with the music.

Milena ducks her head so he won't see her blush in embarrassment. She can't help it when he gets this close, touching. Dancing to a love song like this when they shouldn't be.

She's had lovers in the past, but none have ever lasted more than a few months at most; she never felt comfortable enough telling them who she really is. Lina has asked her about this in the past, hinting at "Luke" as being single and perhaps interested. But using some of the skills she's learned as a practicing psychiatrist, Milena managed to divert the line of questioning and ask her own questions.

" _How have you two been together so long?" she asks Lina, who invited her over for cabbage soup and freshly baked bread._

" _Yes, we bicker," Lina says with a weary sigh. "It's how we've always been, but…there was never anyone else."_

_She leans toward Milena conspiringly._

" _As a young woman, I liked that I could argue with him. He never treated my opinions as lesser, just didn't usually agree with them."_

_They both smile._

" _Really, he was the only man I could be myself with," Lina says. "Even within my own family there were expectations…I don't know. All that is so far away now. I just wish he wouldn't bait me so often."_

" _Then this house would_ _ **really**_ _be boring," Emil says as he passes the kitchen. Lina whacks him with this morning's newspaper._

_"But really, Lesya. I never see you and that boy apart," he teases. "If there were any other interested people besides us, they would be talking."_

Friends, she thinks. _We're friends. That's all._

"Thank you," he says quietly, curling his arm more securely around her waist and bringing her closer. Meanwhile, Tormé croons.

" _ **I used to think your love was something…that I could take, or leave alone.**_ "

"Why?" she asks.

"Before today...I didn't remember having a family." It's bittersweet now. He doubts any of them are still alive, but he's grateful all the same. Maybe that's why he's willing to do this for her, just this once. Her perfume lingered throughout the night, and he smells it near her wrist. He's tempted to bury his nose into her hair, if not her neck.

" _ **But now I can't do without my supply…I need you for my own.**_ "

"I didn't do anything," she murmurs. All she did was buy a record. But Bucky nods slightly.

"You did, Mila."

" _ **Oh, I can't break away, I must have you everyday…as regularly as coffee or tea.**_ "

She rests her head against his broad chest with a contented sigh and listens to his strong heartbeat. Her own must be beating so fast, only because she feels his warm emotions even stronger through their joined hands—gratitude, nostalgia, but at the forefront, a swell of affection the moment she relaxed against him.

_This could end badly_ , she thinks.

She's too idealistic, too sure that the best-case scenario can be a reality. Which is why more often than not, she throws caution to the wind in situations where she probably shouldn't.

And maybe that makes her naïve at times, but if there's one thing she wants to get right, it's this. Even if he gets the rest of his memories back and isn't quite the same person she knows now.

She doesn't want to let him go.

" _ **You're getting to be a habit with me.**_ "


	3. Bucky Barnes

" _Seems that the wrath of the Gods  
Got a punch on the nose and it started to flow;  
I think I might be sinking.  
Throw me a line if I reach it in time  
I'll meet you up there where the path  
Runs straight and high_ _,"_

— _Led Zeppelin, "Going to California"_

**III:** _**Bucky Barnes** _

_**SIX MONTHS LATER** _

The breaking news in Vienna yesterday rapidly becomes breaking news all over Europe the next.

"But it wasn't you!"

"Doesn't matter. If the German government doesn't find me first, somebody else will."

"I should come. I could help—"

He knew he shouldn't have come to see her first.

"Absolutely not," Bucky cuts her off firmly. "They haven't found me yet. They're not finding you."

Before she can reply, he (gently enough) grabs her by the arms and stares into her eyes, making _sure_ she feels what he feels so she understands.

"You're untrained. You'll hesitate. They _**won't**_ ," he says, but his gaze lingers on her face and softens. "I don't know if I could get both of us out of the country."

Her face falls in dejection, making his guilt rise.

Bucky hates that look. _Hates_ because after a year he recognizes the difference between disliking something and never _wanting_ to see something.

He's not, and will never be, safe for her.

Still, even after over a year of living in this country, away from lies and HYDRA and _missions_ , he doesn't want to let her go.

But he has to.

So he withdraws his hands.

"I have to go," he says, schooling his voice and expression blank. "Whatever happens, whatever you see on TV, _don't_ leave from here."

Her eyes are still sad. But she grabs his hand. Hesitates. Then she rises up on her toes, kisses his stubbled cheek before smiling a little at his surprised face. She hides her blush with downcast eyes.

"Go. Don't let them find you," she says, knowing it's too selfish to ask whether he'll come back for her, and too stupid to say, "Be safe."

_Will I ever see you again?_ It's likely that she won't, and the thought makes her eyes sting with the beginnings of tears. But it's his turn to surprise her when he leans down to briefly press his forehead to hers.

"Thank you," he says. She closes her eyes, allowing his deep voice to wash over her.

Then he's gone.

* * *

"… _Captain America and the Winter Soldier found in an apartment building and are being pursued by German police…_ "

Milena paces the living room while tugging at her reddish-brown hair in nervous agitation.

Despite preferring to walk to work, she _does_ have a car parked in the garage behind the building. She wishes she would've thought to give it to Bucky, but she's watching him on the news, in real time, jumping out of his building to the one below. She's just glad Captain America seems to be trying to help him escape.

"What am I thinking?" she asks herself aloud. She has a job. She has a life. If she leaves, she'll probably never be able to come back.

If she tries to help him, a labeled assassin and _terrorist_ , she'll be marked as a criminal.

_I've already helped him by not going to the police._

Then she hears the screech of tires outside, car doors opening and closing. She cautiously peeks down from her window and sees two black sedans and men in black uniforms and guns making their way into her apartment building.

"Shit."

_Are they here for_ _**him** _ _, or_ _**me?** _

She doesn't think she should wait to ask.

Milena grabs her cell phone and keys, hurls them into her purse and is thankful she's wearing jeans and a tank-top, because she doesn't have time to change. Instead she climbs onto the kitchen counter and makes her way out the window.

The ground is three stories below, but there's a rickety ladder that runs from the ground all the way to the roof. The problem is it's at least two feet away from the window.

She perches precariously on the windowsill and uses the wall to balance. The first time she reaches for the ladder, her fingers just scrape the metal bar.

She nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears shouting and a battering ram being used at the front door.

_Come on!_ she yells in her head. _Fucking_ _ **jump**_ _, damn it! You can do this._

She reaches out again as far as she dares, and once her hand closes over the bar she's able to swing over, uttering a short scream when she nearly loses her footing and slides a few inches down. Arms shaking, she scrambles fast halfway down with her purse still on her shoulder, but looks up when two police officers are looking down at her from the window. They aim their guns.

Immediately she sends a wave of pain and confusion that hits them simultaneously, causing them to recoil and grab at their heads instead of their guns.

She faces a similar problem when her feet hit the grass and she's surrounded by about ten officers. The majority of their unit was probably chasing Bucky and Captain America, not worried about one ordinary woman.

" _Drop the bag! Raise your hands above your head_ ," one shouts in German. She doesn't understand much of it, but the point comes across.

_Maybe their intel is a bit incomplete_.

.

.

.

**BERLIN, GERMANY –** _**Five Hours Later** _

This is the kind of shit that gives Tony heart palpitations.

Before he goes upstairs to deal with Steve, he takes the elevator down a couple floors.

"Who is she?"

" _According to public record, she's a Romanian citizen and practicing psychiatrist under alias Dr. Lesya Belevich._ "

"According to _other_ records?" he asks FRIDAY. The A.I. takes a moment to compile the data.

" _Born Milena Malikov in Moscow—November 3, 1961._ "

"Why doesn't anyone look their age anymore?" he sighs. "What else?"

* * *

Milena wakes with a groan. Her eyes open to a room with metal walls, white floors, and glass panels displaying a long hallway outside the room. She's lying in a hard bed with her head bandaged, which makes sense because the ache in her head is excruciating.

The second she tries to sit up her hand flies to her ribs as she hisses in pain.

" _I wouldn't try getting up just yet if I were you,_ " a male voice says in English, she thinks from some kind of intercom.

"Where am I?" she asks, still groggy. Whoever saw to her wounds drugged her with something. Her brain is kind of fuzzy.

" _Berlin. Specifically the Joint Counter Terrorist Centre. Mouthful, I know,_ " he says. " _You wiped out pretty epically for getting just five miles from your apartment._ "

Whoever he is, he sounds annoying.

"Traffic was bad," she says, gritting her teeth when she sits up the rest of the way and slowly swings her legs off the bed.

" _You can thank the Tin Soldier for that_."

She stills.

"What are you talking about?"

" _Surveillance put Barnes leaving your apartment. Then the news got you escaping out the window and dropping a dozen German police without even touching 'em._ "

Milena suppresses a sigh and rotates a stiff shoulder.

" _Kind of interesting. Until you crashed into a pick-up truck. You've got lacerations and a couple broken ribs, some bruising and probably one_ _ **hell**_ _of a headache._ "

She remembers police cars trailing her, remembers being too busy looking behind to see the cars stopped short in front of her because of traffic at the tunnel, her forehead hitting the steering wheel and nothing after.

"Who are you?" she asks out of irritation. The wounds will heal in a few hours anyway.

" _Sorry. I like to skip pleasantries_ ," he says. " _Tony Stark. Genius, billionaire, former-playboy, philanthropist. You might've heard of me._ "

"Makes sense," she murmurs. "I can feel your narcissism from here."

Which wasn't entirely a lie. She felt a presence from the floor above her, but a conflicted one, using indifference through sarcasm to cover it most likely (she's had a client or two that fit the type). She wouldn't be surprised if it was Stark.

" _Heard that,_ " he remarks. " _Sooo, what exactly are you?_ "

Milena smiles slightly.

"What makes you think I am a 'what?'"

" _Glowing eyes tend to do that._ "

She rolls hers, but remains silent.

" _Fine._ _ **Who**_ _are you?_ "

"I'm sure you have my contact information by now," she says dryly.

" _If you mean that you're a fifty-something in a twenty-something body, then yeah. HYDRA files are pretty easy to get a hold of nowadays, but it's much easier for somebody like_ _ **me**_ _to get a grip on the juicy stuff._ "

She huffs. _Figures._

"What do you want then?"

" _Just thought I'd let you know you're not alone in paradise_ ," Stark says. A pause, maybe a hesitation. _"Barnes is in the building…somewhere. Can't tell you where._ "

Milena tenses, silently sucking in a breath.

"What have you done to him?"

" _Nothing. Except give him a nice cube to sit and think in for a while._ "

"What do you _plan_ to do?"

" _Nothing except what the law, and_ _ **public safety**_ _, requires. We're not savages._ "

"Really? What do you call unleashing a creature that tries to eradicate humanity?" she asks.

"… _A mistake._ "

"I'm sure," she wearily replies.

" _Seriously though, what do you see in the guy? You dig dangerous, federal fugitives?_ "

"You're a nosy man."

" _It's been said._ "

She glares down at the white floor.

" _Listen, I'm actually one of the few people on your side. Talk to me now, and maybe you don't get put in jail for helping to hide a marked terrorist._ "

"On my _side?_ " she snaps. "Why is it you're not down here talking to me in person? Are you afraid I'll zap your brain through the metal doors?"

" _I'm the one who talked the higher-ups out of putting a metal shock collar around your neck, so yeah. I_ _ **am**_ _on your side._ "

* * *

"Apparently the two of them met about a year ago after he got into Romania," he tells Steve. "She's been trying to help him with his memories, given their somewhat shared history."

Steve shakes his head, amazed.

"That's…"

"Crazy, considering she's a lot more breakable than him. But whatever," Tony shrugs.

"Does Bucky know she's here?"

"Doubt it."

"I should tell him."

"You don't have a visitors pass," Tony shoots him a look. Steve's jaw clenches in irritation. Tony looks up at the monitors again and sighs.

"She's got potential…I can take her to the compound, keep Wanda and Vision company."

"Would she agree to that?" Steve asks.

"If it keeps her out of jail," Tony replies. "She thought she was helping 'im."

Steve frowns. He glances at the monitor that has Bucky in view, strapped into several metal constraints.

"Maybe she did."

Tony wants to scoff.

"Obviously not enough," he says. "Look, we've got other things to talk about."

.

.

Bucky watches the psychiatrist come in, but tries not to answer his questions, his prodding of _James_ this and _James_ that. The condescension in his voice is irritating.

"My name is Bucky."

The correction ends up not making a difference, but the sudden blackout does.

.

.

Milena looks up in confusion when the power goes out.

" _What the hell?_ " she mutters in Russian, then in English, "Hello? What's going on?"

No one answers her, but the heightened distress she feels coming from somewhere in the building (not far away), the unique emotional signature, is familiar.

_Bucky._

Her heart drops into her stomach as the negative waves become more intense. What could be _happening_ to him?

"Stark!"

When she hears doors sliding open, she slowly stands from the bed, hissing in pain, and moves to the glass panels. It's not long before Captain America and another man she doesn't know are jogging toward her cell.

"Captain! Steve Rogers," she calls. "Please let me out."

"You're Milena right?" Steve says as they approach the cell. She can tell he wants to keep moving, so she nods quickly.

"If he's in trouble, I can help him," she says. After a second of weighing his options, Steve pulls the two panels of the door sliding open.

"Stay behind us unless it's necessary for you to protect yourself."

"Got it."

She looks over to the lean, well-built African American man to her right, and he nods at her.

"I'm Sam."

"Milena."

Though it's painful, she has to run to keep up with both men's long strides. They turn a corner and soon enough there is a scattering of unconscious bodies in front of Bucky Barnes' now open cell.

Inside is a man prone on the floor, face pained.

"Help me," he says to Sam, who nearly gets to him before he's grabbed by the jaw and hurled into the glass cube that once held Bucky. But the man that kicks Steve into the far wall is not Bucky.

Milena calls his name anyway, earns his sharp attention, and projects calm to his mind after locking her eyes with his. Unknown to her, the man from before slips away behind her.

"Bucky, it's me," she says soothingly.

He stops, but not because he recognizes her. His eyes are that of the Winter Soldier, and though she fights to keep herself controlled, she _is_ scared. Her hands are shaking, cold sweat running down her neck and spine.

"Can you stop him?" Steve asks. He stands nearby, recovered from the hit he took.

"I'm trying, don't distract me," she snaps.

Her abilities lie in her confidence as well as control over her own emotions, but she feels the whirlwind of violent intent that lies under his skin. It pushes at her as he stalks toward her, one step at a time. Steve tenses, ready to step in at the first sign of danger.

"Bucky?" she asks again. His eyes only hold the weight of his mission.

The moment she allows her fear to make her projection waver is the moment he snaps her control. Though Steve holds back his metal arm, the Soldier uses the other to backhand her in the jaw, and with a grunt she stumbles and falls. By the time she lifts her head again, the Soldier and Steve are gone.

So she slowly slides up to her hands and knees just as Sam is waking up. He gets to his feet and helps her the rest of the way onto her feet.

"You okay?" he asks.

"'Okay' is relative," she says dryly. Her ribcage is screaming and her head is pounding, but other than that, she's fine.

"All right, come on."

He leads her out of the cell and down the nearest flight of stairs.

"Where are we going? Shouldn't we be helping Steve?" she asks.

"Steve can take him," Sam says. "But we're all gunna need a getaway car when this is over, not to mention a way to pin him down after."

.

.

.

_**One Hour Later** _

Bucky wakes in a dilapidated warehouse with his metal arm in a vice.

Milena no longer feels killing intent from him, but the Captain is still cautious.

"Steve?" Bucky asks, his voice a little hoarse. Milena also senses a change in him, what exactly she doesn't know yet.

"Which Bucky am I talking to?" Steve asks warily.

"Your mom's name is Sarah," Bucky says, slow but steady. Then he chuckles a little. "You used to stuff newspapers in your shoes."

Milena watches Steve's spine loosen, and happiness blooms in her chest when she realizes what the change is.

"Can't read that in a museum," Steve says with a smile.

"So just like that we're supposed to be cool?" Sam asks skeptically.

When Bucky's gaze shifts from Steve to Milena, she takes a half-step towards him, reminding herself that his eyes are no longer blank—that he won't hurt her if she reaches out because it's _him_ again, not the Soldier.

"You still remember me, right?" she asks quietly, a quirk of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. He smiles a little in return.

"Yeah." She makes her way over to him and threads her fingers in his hair, smoothing strands away from his eyes. He looks up at her, slightly pained, with furrowed brows.

" _What the hell are you doing here?_ " he asks in Russian, frustration in his voice.

" _You weren't so slick leaving my apartment_ ," she teases. " _They brought me to Berlin, same as you._ "

He sighs in resignation. Then his eyes roam over her face, lingering below her cheek as his lips pull into a deeper frown.

His fingers trail over the dark bruise forming along her jaw. She feels his heavy guilt like it's in her own chest.

"It was my fault," she says. "Control over my abilities starts with control over my own emotions. I got distracted."

His eyes darken.

"I still did that to you."

"I forgive you then," she says with another teasing grin. "Satisfied?"

His lips twitch at a smile despite himself.

"No."

"…Bucky," Steve says a bit reluctantly, but it earns the other man's attention. "I'm sorry, but I need to know what that guy wanted from you."

Bucky tries to think, but it's still a little hazy. Memories are still flooding back every time he thinks of something else. It makes it hard to concentrate.

"I don't know…"

"This guy went through a hell of a lot just to get ten minutes with you. I need better than 'I don't know,'" Steve presses.

Bucky thinks harder. With Milena's supportive hand on his shoulder, his thoughts begin to clear.

"He wanted to know about Siberia," he says slowly, "the facility where I was kept. He wanted to know where it was."

"Why would he want to know that?" Steve asks.

"Because I'm not the only Winter Soldier."

* * *

He explains the best he can what happened in 1991, and the more Milena hears, the more horrified she becomes, as well as more grateful that it happened after she escaped that same facility.

Five more Winter Soldiers, who were not captured like Bucky was, but _volunteered_. This man who triggered Bucky's programming, whoever he was, has to be stopped before he wakes them up and throws the world into chaos.

Steve rapidly begins to figure out a plan, though it's obvious that Tony Stark won't believe anything they tell him (just because Steve's judgment is "biased") and will try to stop them.

Once Steve lets Bucky's arm out of the vice, the four of them squeeze into the Volkswagen Beetle Sam was able to find. Milena thought it would be a better idea before she watches Bucky squeeze next to her into the backseat, his knees hitting the back of the passenger seat where Sam sits.

Bucky's face is grumpy as Steve starts to drive (she's learned the difference between his serious face and his brooding face). And along with the emotions she's getting from him, she can't help an amused grin. He looks over at her and raises a brow at her. She feels his amusement at seeing hers.

" _Comfortable?_ " she asks him playfully in Russian. His lips twitch at a grin.

Bucky doesn't know why he does it, but he slides his metal arm casually on the back of her seat and leans closer to her—close enough that she blushes at the proximity.

Maybe because it's a move his old self was familiar with pulling in the past, and he likes the way she looks at him when she blushes.

" _Are you?_ " he smiles innocently enough. She's caught off guard by the look in his eyes as hers widen. Is he… _flirting_ with her? She flushes more at the thought.

Steve glances at the two in the rearview mirror and the corner of his lips lift in a slight smile. He's glad Bucky met someone, that he wasn't alone all this time he's been missing. But he can't help a little twinge of something, seeing how comfortable they are, how in tune she seems to be with him when he hasn't felt that way with his best friend in a _long_ time.

.

.

Milena feels Steve's gladness, as well as a strain of jealousy and feels badly for him. The two have been friends for a lifetime, yet even with his memories restored, there was still distance that had yet to be bridged between them. They just didn't have the time to sort it all out now.

Sam, who still has his cell phone (untraceable thanks to an upgrade last year from Stark), gets a call that has them parking under an overpass in the middle of relative nowhere.

Milena discreetly watches Bucky's reaction when Steve parts with a pretty blonde CIA agent after a passionate kiss; she feels the same warm feelings (and amusement that Sam shares), without the jealousy. She realizes it's different for Bucky, who hasn't been trying to get Steve to remember him for the past few years.

But once Steve is back in the car, his and Sam's uniform suites and gear in the trunk, it's time to talk seriously.

"We're gunna need some help," Steve says. Sam glances over at him.

"I can make the calls," he says.

"Can you get Clint on the line?"

"Yeah, give me a minute. This place is nearly a dead zone."

"Who're we up against?" Bucky asks when Sam is out of the car looking for service.

"Tony, Rhodes, and Natasha, at least," Steve says with a weary sigh. "Probably a couple more. I might be able to get Wanda out of the Avengers compound, maybe a couple more guys on our side."

"How?"

"I've got something in mind, but it depends if he agrees to help us."

"Those are a lot of ifs," Milena mutters.

"We're playing by ear," Steve admits. "But I think we can pull this off."

* * *

Milena doesn't know what to expect when she meets Clint Barton, Wanda Maximoff and Scott Lang, but any tension there might've been is dissolved by Scott's nervous, but amusing star-struck antics in Steve's presence.

Right away she senses that Wanda is probably the most powerful out of all of them—a true telepath among other things Milena can only guess at. While her own abilities are more instinctual, intuitive and _feeling_ , telepaths and telekinetics are _seeing_ and _touching_ in a different, more active sense.

So she isn't surprised when Wanda greets her with a smile that says she knows they're kindred spirits. And when it's time to break down their plan for getting to the Quinjets at the airport in Berlin, it makes sense to her that Steve pairs them up.

"Somehow, I think we'll make a good team," Wanda says, then really does surprise her by saying, " _All this testosterone needs a bit of balancing, no?_ "

Milena smiles genuinely and replies in their native language.

" _Is my English that bad?_ " she jokes. Wanda grins.

" _More like I realize what my accent must sound like_."

.

.

Bucky is not as comfortable with the situation.

"I want her with me."

"With what she can do, she'll better match up with Wanda—"

"Steve," Bucky says seriously. He meets his old friend's blue eyes with his own. "She didn't sign on for all this. I can't let her get hurt."

Not again, at least. He noticed that she's been favoring her left side. In the car her hand went to her ribs every time Steve hit a bump or an uneven patch on the road. Her lips would press together as her other hand gripped the car door handle, which told him that however she'd been caught by the police wasn't exactly as quick and smooth as she'd made it seem.

Steve meets his eyes with sympathy.

"Buck, I understand—"

"No you don't," Bucky says, clenching his fists in irritation. "She's a _doctor!_ She's never been in a firefight—"

"That's why I put her together with Wanda," Steve lays a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder. "She's strong enough that no one's gunna get close to her without being flung into a wall."

Bucky still doesn't like it. He'd rather her be by his side, but he knows he'll probably attract some of the bigger guns.

"Can you trust me on this?" Steve asks earnestly. He understands Bucky's fear, and there's a chance they all won't make it out with just a few bumps and bruises. But he knows Tony just wants to bring them in, not make any kill shots.

Eventually, Bucky lets out a shaky breath.

"I guess I owe you this one, huh?"

Steve smirks.

"One? You owe me a lot more than that, pal."

_Damn punk._ Bucky shakes his head fondly, feeling the burn in his eyes at really _seeing_ him, _his brother_ , again. At finally feeling at home in his own skin.

"I'm sorry, Steve," he says after a minute. For not remembering, for going after him, his friends, _everything_.

That's when Steve visibly softens, pain in his eyes even though he smiles in relief, and pulls his old friend into a strong hug that both of them need.

"It's just good to have you back."


	4. Choice & Consequence

" _I will break down the gates of heaven_ _  
_ _A thousand angels stand waiting for me_ _  
_ _Take my heart_ _  
_ _And I'll lay down my weapons_ _  
_ _Break my shackles to set me free_ _,"_

— _Pentatonix, "Run to You"_

**IV: Choice & Consequence**

Steve clicks on stealth mode as soon as they're up in the air, plugs in the coordinates, and steers them in the right direction expertly. But he does so with a weight in the pit of his stomach that's almost nausea.

He makes the mistake of glancing to his right, seeing the rigid figure gripping the armrests of his seat so tight there are probably permanent indents underneath.

"Buck, I'm sorry," Steve says. Quiet, but sincere. Bucky just stares at the cloudy skies ahead.

.

.

.

_**Twenty Minutes Earlier** _

It starts better than he expected, though they're faced with Stark and his allies. Some of them Bucky's fought personally, like Black Widow and T'Challa, king of Wakanda under the mask of the Black Panther (who Bucky is very much aware wants to kill him). Others he only recognizes from what Steve told him, like War Machine and Vision. He said to be careful of Vision.

It's why Bucky's nervous when the android targets Wanda, and by default Mila as she protects Wanda's back. Black Panther has Bucky too busy to lend a hand, but he notices when Wanda tosses an energy blast at Widow, getting her off Hawkeye's back.

But the blood in Bucky's veins goes cold when Mila tries to stop Vision from getting the drop on Wanda, her hand thrust out in front of her.

Bucky ducks a swipe of vibranium claws aiming for his throat, and calls out for her. If she hears him, she doesn't turn to look back at him.

Vision pauses, visibly confused by her power, but Bucky sees when the yellow Infinity Stone at the crown of the android's head begins to light up and counts it as a bad sign.

What happens next is a blur that Bucky doesn't remember vividly until later.

"Steve!"

The Captain glances his way and immediately sees the problem. A frustrated kick sends the Panther back enough that Steve blocks his way from catching up to Bucky, who just manages to hook an arm around Mila's waist and shield her smaller form with his body. He doesn't think first whether his metal arm will deflect the blast, but it turns out he doesn't have to when Wanda is able to put up a barrier between them and the stream of energy.

"Get behind me," Wanda encourages, opening up a wider barrier, and Bucky doesn't think twice before leading Mila away, but close enough to watch Wanda's back. When he looks down, Mila meets his gaze with a sheepish smile. Her hands are shaking.

"Don't take on more than you can handle," he warns her sternly and grabs her hands, even though he knows she'll detect his anger and the remnants of anxiety.

Mila nods hesitantly, but he can see she's a bit shaken. Bucky presses his flesh hand against her cheek to steady her. Not for the first time, he feels guilty; if it weren't for him, she wouldn't be in the middle of a fight she has no business being in—

"Buck, a little help!" Steve shouts as War Machine and Black Panther begin to gang up on him with bullets and punches, alternatively.

Bucky glances back at Wanda over his shoulder.

"We've got it here," she says. Her eyes lock with Mila's, and understanding passes between the two.

"I'm all right. Go," Mila tells him firmly.

He loses track of her after that. The battle pulls him indoors on the search for the Quinjets with Sam, the two of them forced into dodging some kid in a red and blue outfit claiming to be _Spiderman_. Between fighting back and getting the weird webbing off of their hands and feet, Sam's suit is able to locate the Quinjets, the only problem being that they're on the other side of the clearing.

But after Scott pulls his large and perfectly timed "distraction," it's a straight line from the standard planes to the hanger where the Quinjets are parked. Sam helps with keeping Stark and War Machine busy while Bucky and Steve make a run for it.

But Bucky doesn't buy that only the two of them can get away safely. A few of them can still make it; Wanda and Mila are fighting the Black Panther only yards away—

Until Vision tries to bury the Quinjets by shooting a bolt of energy at the roof.

Wanda freezes the collapsing hanger, holding the crumbling roof with her powers. But it leaves Mila open for a kick to the sternum by the Panther.

"Go!" Wanda says, straining.

Steve calls out to him when he stops short—his friend's eyes say they need to go, but in that moment he's torn when he sees the Panther's claws reach out for Mila.

At the last moment her eyes glow brightly, and the claws recoil. Her hand goes to the com device in her ear as she looks back at him over her shoulder, with both the remnants of fear and determination.

" _Go now, Bucky! Don't stop!_ " he hears in his own earpiece, even though he can hear her without it.

War Machine shoots a high frequency blast that hits Wanda dead on, sending her to her knees grabbing her head in pain as her control over the hanger roof slips.

With Steve's hand on his shoulder, Bucky narrowly makes it inside along with him.

Natasha doesn't stop them when they jump into in the nearest Quinjet, but in a twist of fate, holds Black Panther off while they fly out of the hole in the roof.

When Bucky looks down at the rapidly disappearing ground, he sees Wanda cradled by Vision, and not far off, Mila lying on her side on the pavement, hair obscuring her face.

For the king of Wakanda's sake, she better just be unconscious.

.

.

.

"What'll happen to them?" Bucky asks when he's a little more in control of himself. Steve's lips press in a line.

"Whatever it is, we'll deal with it," he says. Bucky closes his eyes, releasing his grip on the seat with a tired sigh.

"I need a little more than that, Steve," He says, and runs his non-metallic hand through his hair in frustration. No one should be breaking the law and getting captured because of he let a madman take advantage of his "programming." _No one_ should be taking a bullet for him.

"I don't know if I'm worth all this."

Steve shoots him a look.

"What you did all those years…it wasn't you," he says eventually. "You didn't have a choice."

"I know," Bucky replies. And a lot of those people—they were liars and killers and terrorists and the scum of the earth just like HYDRA. But not all of them were.

Law officers. Political up-and-comers that posed a threat for HYDRA's control in respective governments. Civilians. Many caught in the crossfire that he can only remember in distant screams that he sometimes wouldn't let Mila dull in his head, because how could he deserve to forget?

It's almost not enough that he'll continue to see their faces every time he closes his eyes.

"But I still did it," Bucky says, and watches Steve's reaction. It's subtle, but those dark blue eyes dim a bit.

Then the Captain inhales deeply.

"When this is over, we'll find them," he says. "They'll be taken to a jail that can hold 'em."

Bucky's eyes narrow. And just like that, the nightmares replaying in his head are chased away by the almost equally dark thought of Mila being restrained by anyone.

"What _kind_ of jail?"

.

.

.

**NEAR NEW YORK CITY -** _**The Raft** _

"This thing itches."

"Try not to pick at it," Clint tells her warily. Milena sighs. It takes a conscious effort to put her hand down by her side.

"Yeah, probably not a good idea," Scott says. "I've been electrocuted before. It's not…pleasant."

"What happened?" she asks.

"Got tased," he replies. "Feels like your skin's on fire."

"By the police?"

Scott eyes her in amusement. It's not the first time he's been on the receiving side of her curiosity; before they stripped him out of it, his "distraction" got her wondering about all the bells and whistles on his suit and how it worked. A lot of it is trade secrets (Pym would kill him if he blabbed specifics), but he told her a little of how the regulator works, and she'd been very interested about the EMP device that helps him communicate with the ants.

"You ask a lot of questions," he says. Milena grins sheepishly.

"Sorry, force of habit," she replies. At his questioning look, she adds, "I was a psychiatrist."

"Was?"

She shrugs, looking down at the floor.

"I'm here now."

Scott considers this, then offers her a smile.

"Good guess," he says wryly, tapping his nose. "Let's just say I haven't always been this _heroic_."

Sam huffs out a long breath, hanging his head a bit. He knows Scott's history. He did his homework after…that incident at the Avengers compound that won't be repeated.

"I'm sorry, man," Sam says, then looks up at the man in the cell to his right, sitting on the bed with his arms crossed. "You too, Barton. Steve and I called you guys in."

"Cap needed the help," Clint says, shaking his head. "Still needs it."

Conversation dies after that. Milena thinks of Wanda, who was fitted with a blue and gray prison outfit like the rest of them, as well as a straightjacket and a shock collar in case she tries to use her powers, and put into solitary confinement. She doesn't know where the other woman is.

She hopes it's at least comfortable enough for Wanda to sleep.

Milena is broken out of her thoughts by the large, double doors at the end of the hall sliding open. Then she has to fight for control of her emotions at the man who comes in, so she doesn't accidentally project anything.

Tony Stark is not without physical injury, but what surprises her is the guilt and sadness she feels from him as he dodges verbal jabs from Clint and Scott. Eventually, his eyes meet hers and she knows he knows what she sees in him.

"How 'bout you, how're you feeling?" he asks. "Stupid question, I know."

_But he_ _ **is**_ _concerned_ , she thinks. _Genuinely._

Doesn't change the fact that she wants to give him a black eye to match the other; it's because of him that Steve and Bucky are trying to stop the possible destruction of the world alone, without the rest of them to help.

"If it wouldn't put me into cardiac arrest, I would show you."

Stark's eyes lower to the metal around her neck subconsciously.

"Are you still on my side?" she asks rhetorically. She expects him to turn his back on her.

He winks at her instead.

Then he knocks out the audio in the cameras just long enough to convince the four jailbirds that he believes in Steve Rogers.

* * *

Sleep doesn't come to her that night like it does (eventually) for the three men. Worry for the two super soldiers, as well as anxiety of being in a cell again, wreak havoc on her mind as memories from the facility make her break out into a cold sweat.

_"It must be done, Lena. For the sake of our future, for the sake of the world," he says as she lies on the table. Tears run down her face when the leather gag prevents her from begging him not to do this to her._

_"We have enough **soldiers.** What we need is…intelligence." His fingers slide down her cheek, despite her shaking form trying to recoil from him. "How better to acquire intelligence than by extracting it? And the possibilities for **control** are endless."_

_His new assistant comes in with the necessary test tubes and clean syringes._

_"Ah, perfect."_

_He picks one up and smells the chemicals within reverently. They are the only labor of love he knows in this world._

_"You will see, Lena," he says while watching tiny bubbles float inside the liquid. "Your position is one of honor."_

"Hey," she hears from the cell to her left, and her gaze flicks unsteadily up to Clint's. His eyes are sharp, but she feels his concern. Reaching out, sensing his emotions, it grounds her a little as fear and anxiety from both the memory and the surrounding walls start to climb up from her chest into her throat.

"Hey, you okay?" he asks. She focuses on her breathing until she can answer.

"Yes."

"You're a bad liar."

She almost smiles, because she knows. Bucky's told her that more than once. She wishes she could see him—

_You will see, Lena._

Her half-smile falters and her breath hitches, and her nails dig into the mattress as the very _name_ echoes in the walls of her mind.

"You're the doctor," Clint says. She doesn't notice the slightly worried set of his gaze. "You know the deep breathing thing—"

_All the possibilities…but breathe. Breathe even though it hurts._

"It's _not_ my first panic attack," she snaps with a strained look, and shuts her eyes tightly.

**_Control_ ** _, Lena. **Control.**_

She tries and fails to command her breathing.

**_Fire_ ** _in her veins, shooting up her neck in sparks. It **hurts.**_

She bites her lip, _hard_ , and almost tastes leather.

"Are you sure—"

" _Leave me be._ "

She doesn't need a spectator, certainly not from a relative stranger.

But she still feels his eyes on her when she moves to the edge of her bed and forced herself to breathe evenly, and it's much easier to now that her ribs have fully healed.

_"It is an honor to serve your country."_

_"This is not Russia…this is **wrong**."_

_"You will help us make a better world, Lena. Regardless of your childish notions."_

She stares down at the floor. Accepts her surroundings as glass walls (except for the white wall that her bed is situated against) and white floors; clean, with a relatively soft bed and scratchy sheets. Differentiates them from the rusty metal bars and cement floors in her mind.

Eventually the anxiety passes, and overcoming it exhausts her enough that she's able to fall into fitful sleep.

.

.

.

They get no word the next morning. Not from Stark, or anyone.

So really, all they can do is wait.

"I'm not playing _I-Spy_ with you. There's nothing _to_ spy."

"Well _I'm_ done playing twenty-questions, _Dr. Phyllis_."

Milena smirks.

"Why?"

"Unfair advantage," Scott says pointedly.

"I can't read your mind," she retorts.

"Doesn't mean your educated guesses are more than a little _educated_."

"No one needs to _guess_ what you're thinking for 'hella tall,' 'golden blonde,' and 'has a thing for lightning,'" Sam says dryly.

"Don't forget 'dramatic,'" Clint mutters. "Overly muscled."

"What's he like?" Milena asks. Besides all those things.

"Talks like fuckin' Shakespeare's dumber brother," Clint says with a smirk. They've teased him about it more than once, and it almost never gets old.

" _Doth Mother know you weareth her drapes?"_

He hadn't been there for that one, but _damn_ had he laughed when Tony told him about it later.

"You don't happen to have 'im on speed dial, do you?" Scott asks. Clint chuckles.

"Pretty sure he's out of range."

.

.

.

**WAKANDA, AFRICA**

He wakes in a hospital-like room with a crick in his neck, his body aching, and a missing left arm. Not to mention an acute sense of _déjà vu_.

Artificial lights above him are bright and annoying, but the bed is soft, and out of the corner of his eye he can see a mop of blonde hair that he knows all too well. It calms him.

"How're you feelin'?" Steve's voice is more gravelly than usual, but it carries enough threaded concern that Bucky picks up on.

"Probably better than you," he replies. Steve smiles.

"I'm okay." And it's more or less true. The bruises and fractures and lacerations are healing quickly thanks to his advanced anatomy, even if he has an ache in his head that keeps him from moving too much on his own bed.

"Really?" Bucky asks. There's a look in his eyes that reminds Steve of a dreary day in Brooklyn. A service where he spent the whole day shaking hands and nodding, numb until it was just the two of them left standing in front of a newly made grave. All it took was Bucky's hand on his shoulder, and suddenly he couldn't be numb anymore.

He was never a good liar and Bucky was never stupid enough to believe him when he tried.

"I'll _be_ okay," Steve amends.

He's lost a friend, who for his faults is a good man who likely feels betrayed. Steve understands that, feels guilty for it down to his bones.

"I'll be better when we make one more prison break." Bucky perks up in Steve's direction.

"How are we doing it?"

"I know someone we can call."

Bucky looks down at what's left of his arm. All he wants to do now is break down walls and whoever's bones he needs to until he finds her, has her in his arms and knows she's safe. But he can't help but think it'll be exponentially harder to do now than it would've been a few days ago.

"I should sit this one out," he murmurs. He could pilot the Quinjet while Steve makes the recovery. "Air-support only."

The blonde looks over at him in surprise.

"What about—"

Bucky gestures to his missing limb.

"This makes it a little harder to shoot, don't you think?" he says dryly. He refuses to endanger the success of the mission, for anything.

"I'd say you're pretty capable regardless," Steve retorts. "You really want _me_ to be the one walking her out of there?"

Bucky sighs and rests his head back.

"If it means she walks out," he says, brows furrowing in frustration. "Mila hates being caged about as much as I do."

Steve falls silent. He's saddened by the guilty, self-deprecating look he sees in the other man's eyes; to anyone else his tone would sound stoic, but for all of Bucky's bravado in the past, he'd never been good at getting anything past _Steve_ either. That's when he realizes something that has him smiling inwardly, despite the situation.

This girl matters to him, more than he thinks Bucky realizes.

But the silence breaks when the king of Wakanda walks in through the open door, a clipboard in his hands.

"Pardon the intrusion, as well as my presumptuousness," the man says, with a particular smile that sends Bucky an immediate red flag. "But I have a proposition for you."

He hands over the clipboard to Bucky, whose eyes roam over the pages with increasing interest.

.

.

.

**THE RAFT –** _**One Week Later** _

"So wait, in twenty years, you must've been all over," Sam says. Milena shakes her head, smiling ruefully.

"I haven't traveled as much as I'd have liked. I was hiding in the Ukraine for a long time."

Trying to get by without hurting anyone or risk anyone finding out she was different.

There had been a learning curve to figuring out just how HYDRA's meddling with her physiology changed her. Without money or resources, she'd spent a few months homeless, sleeping under bridges; it soon became obvious that while she wouldn't die from those conditions, she wasn't impervious. There were nights she had been able to sleep in church basements, until a widow took pity on her and let her stay in what was her husband's office, turned spare room.

"But you said you lived in America for a while," Scott says.

"During medical school I studied abroad in Boston."

"Wow…well, it's amazing you learned English."

She smiles in amusement.

"Must've been cold," Scott remarks. He grew up in Miami, Florida, where the weather was like Hell's ass-crack from late spring until early fall. Not even a lick of snow until he went with his family to North Carolina one Christmas break to see his grandparents.

"I'm used to cold," Milena replies, and leans back against the wall from where she sits on her bed. "Winters in Russia were nothing to laugh at."

She has several unpleasant memories of shivering underneath threadbare blankets; any requests for another blanket or maybe some gloves met with steely glares. The experiments ensured she wouldn't get frostbite, but the cold was still unpleasant.

"What about in Romania?" Sam asks. Milena's expression turns thoughtful.

Fortunately, those nights in Russia are a stark contrast to more recent ones spent with Bucky in her apartment. They'd greeted the New Year with hot chocolate and homemade chocolate chip cookies that she very nearly burnt, but he hadn't minded; after taking a bite, his eyes had widened and his lips had twitched at a smile.

_Feeling his nostalgia and brief happiness over a tinge of sadness, she asks him what he saw._

" _Someone used to make these…I think my mother," he says, and smiles more fully as he takes another bite. "They had a lot of chocolate, like this."_

"They used to be colder," she admits as she stares out vacantly, but smiling at the memory. She doesn't see Sam and Clint sharing knowing looks, while Scott's just a little confused.

"Well, at least _you're_ thinkin' of something good," Clint remarks, smirking further at her blush. It wasn't hard to tell there was _something_ between her and what he'd seen of the fatal looking, nearly silent Winter Soldier, who only seemed to trust her and Steve. Clint wasn't thrilled at the time to meet him, knowing he'd been the one to shoot Natasha way back when.

But after Milena explained the control HYDRA had over him, and with Clint's own experience with having his head fucked with, he was able to understand the Soldier a little better.

Before the fight at the airport, he saw him arguing with Steve, eyes blazing with frustration and those lethal hands clenched at his sides. Then later, seeing him holding Milena protectively, eyes noticeably softer and even _afraid_ , Clint was able to understand the _man_ a little better.

"Beats staring at the wall," Sam points out. "I wish we had some cards or somethin'."

"I wonder…" Milena cuts herself off. Her eyes subconsciously glance up at the cameras.

_I hope they're all right_.

It's been a week since they were arrested, but after days with no new information, Sam got the guards bringing them food to talk a little: Colonel Helmut Zemo is the real name of the man who impersonated the psychiatrist meant to evaluate Bucky. He was captured alive by King T'Challa and brought to Berlin, but Stark hasn't visited since the day he renewed their trust in him.

They have no update on Steve or Bucky, and it leaves Milena feeling cold and worried. But at the very least, they defeated Zemo and escaped the facility.

"I hope they're safe," she says softly. Clint glances over.

"Who, Cap and Red Dawn?" he asks, eliciting a bland look out of her once she recognizes the reference.

"Creative," she deadpans. She thinks she prefers Stark's "Tin Man" remark.

"Look," Sam interjects, but is mindful of the cameras listening above and chooses his next words carefully. "Steve's too stubborn to quit, let alone die. I doubt Barnes is any different."

Milena knows that. She _knows_ how strong he is, and now that he remembers being himself and knows Steve again, he's a little more stable. But it's hard not to worry for him with so much that could go wrong…

She shakes her head at her own thoughts when the lights turn off automatically; "curfew" is at eleven, though in here it's hard to get a sense of the time after dinner time.

Milena slips her shoes off but keeps her socks on when she slips under the scratchy, thin blankets of her bed.

"Goodnight," she says, but when she adds something in Russian, she can feel their collective confusion and curiosity.

"What's that mean?" Scott asks. Milena smiles.

"Pleasant dreams."

"Oh…well, you too."

She rolls over and curls her arms around her knees, tucked up to her chest, wishing she could watch some TV or read the one book they gave her. It figures the moment she actually _wants_ to read, it's too dark to see.

_I'm not even tired._

Milena sighs and stares up into the darkness, feeling the pinpricks of loneliness set in.

But she shouldn't feel as lonely as she does. Scott is very talkative and likeable; honest in a way she finds refreshing. When he and Clint bond over crude humor it makes her smile (if sometimes mildly disgusted), especially when she sees Sam rolling his eyes when she can _feel_ his laughter bubbling underneath a collected persona.

She does like Steve's friend. He's direct, but knows how to word things without coming off too blunt. Sam is also good at reading in between the lines of conversation in a way that's more organic than her way. Clint is also very perceptive, probably more due to his training as an assassin than anything else.

She's learned a lot about these men in ten days, but…she misses her apartment. Her couch, her own bed, her record player and her favorite crocheted blanket, given to her by the first person besides her mother to show her mercy.

Her coworkers and patients probably think she's a freak and a criminal, if they saw the news, not to mention Emil and Lina, who she knows for a fact watch and read the news religiously ever since the Avengers incident in Sokovia.

Everything she spent years building up for herself—her career, her life, it's all just…over.

She slides her knees up closer to her chest as tears sting her eyes. The worst part is, she can't ask herself yet if it was worth it. Not until she knows Bucky is safe.

But as she lies in bed (hoping she _will_ sleep), in her mind she holds onto the one and only night she enjoyed dancing—to a song just as endearing and warm as the man that held her.

.

.

.

She wakes up startled by a strong hand on her shoulder and quickly spoken words.

"What?" she manages through the haziness of sleep, but as her vision focuses her eyes widen in surprise.

"Captain?"

"Come on, we're gettin' everyone out," Steve smiles. He helps her to her feet and, after breaking out Sam, Clint, and Scott, they exit the large double doors that enclose their unit of cells. Steve presses his hand to his ear.

"Sharon, we're moving out. What's your position?"

"I'm here," a familiar blonde says, grinning up at Steve with an impressive looking gun in her hand. Milena knows next to nothing about guns, but she recognizes Sharon as the pretty woman Steve kissed goodbye little over a week ago. Wanda follows behind her, her eyes bloodshot and the shock collar still around her neck like Milena's, but she's smiling and free of the straightjacket.

"Your uniforms and gear are already on the jet," Sharon tells Clint, Sam and Scott. All three of them brighten at that, but Milena is still looking for Bucky, wondering with trepidation why he isn't here.

_Was he hurt?_

Just as she's about to ask the Captain, he warns the whole group that they only have less than five minutes before they're discovered.

"Then let's stop talkin' and hit the road," Clint says. Steve nods and leads them down the hall at a more than brusque pace, taking out guards with swift punches and blows with his shield as they go. Clint helps Wanda, who looks fatigued at she starts to lag behind.

"You all right?" he asks earnestly. Wanda nods gratefully for his hand on her arm keeping her upright.

She smiles at him and Milena, who helps on her other side. "It's good to see you guys."

Steve eventually opens a door at the end of a long hallway and starts running up the metal staircase that seems to lead up a couple stories.

"Don't stop 'til we get to the roof!" he calls down to them over his shoulder. Milena looks up and wonders if she can even make it, if _Wanda_ can make it. But Milena's attention goes back to Steve when she hears him talk into his intercom.

"Hey, where are you?" His voice is more or less neutral, but even from the end of the line she picks up on his concern.

"Understood. Make for the roof. We need to take off in a couple minutes."

After curiosity about whoever he was talking to subconsciously shifts Milena's thoughts to Bucky again, she can't help but start in surprise when gunshots ring above her head.

"We've got incoming!" Clint shouts. He moves to cover both Wanda and Milena's backs by shoving them ahead of him. "Go! Go!"

Milena only looks back when she hears a grunt of pain behind her.

"Clint!" She doesn't see or hear Steve ordering the rest of them to keep going while he makes his way down to her and the former Avenger bleeding from his back. All she knows is she has to help Clint up before the trained agents in dark uniforms catch up the twenty or so steps it'll take to get to them.

"I'm fine. Keep going!" he shouts at her.

"No you're not!" she snaps.

The two manage to get onto their feet and start climbing again, if slower than they had been a minute ago. But a second later Steve is there and grabs Clint's arm, propelling him forward faster than Milena possibly could.

It's just her luck that she misses a step and bangs her knee on solid metal, but it's the pain of a bullet grazing above her hip that makes her cry out.

Steve's hand shoots out for her, but just as she gets up to grab it her hair is painfully tugged back by a gloved hand.

_No!_

She can't help the short scream that comes from losing her balance, as well as gut-wrenching fear that she's not going to make it out with everyone else.

Until there's a warbled yell and an audible _snap_ that reaches her ears. Then the painful grip on her hair loosens and is gone, and her back is pressed to something hard, but warm as a strong arm wraps around her waist.

" _I've got you,_ " a coarse voice says in Russian, and relief hits her in waves so immediately that she feels tears in her eyes.

"Bucky," Milena whispers shakily. But she yelps when she's hefted effortlessly into the man's arms. He nods up at Steve, who smirks and gestures for them to go up ahead of them.

"I'll cover you," he says, and Bucky doesn't need to be told twice, starting up the stairs quicker with Milena in his arms than she had on her own.

She cranes her head back to see the steely concentration on his face, in his sharp blue eyes that glance down at her when he feels her watching him.

"Where were you?" she asks in concern. He smiles a little.

"Got held back clearing the way for all of you," he admits. It's then that she notices something about his metal arm—that it's shinier, and though the overall construction seems the same, it's missing the large red star that marked him property of the Soviet Union as "the Asset." But she doesn't have time to ask about it now.

"Start the jet," they hear Steve say behind them. "We're comin' in hot."

They reach the roof less than a minute later, where Scott grabs Bucky's right shoulder in support when he jumps into the Quinjet with Milena. The door slides down to a close after Steve jumps in behind them.

"We're clear, take her up!" he calls to Sharon in the pilot's chair, but she's already started accelerating. Secretary Ross' men begin to file onto the roof and shoot at the aircraft until Sharon switches on stealth mode, and steers them into the night.


	5. Aftershock

" _What's in our hearts, there's never time to say  
Need you tonight, lover don't fade away…  
Tell me secrets, oh that make you cry  
Where's the laughter, we gotta try_ _,"_

— _Journey, "Why Can't this Night Go On Forever"_

**V:** _**Aftershock** _

Bucky sets her down gently in the nearest open chair. With Sam in the back of the plane seeing to Clint's wound, Bucky takes it upon himself to check Mila's. He stops her when she tries to get up from her seat.

"I need to help Clint," she tells him, and at his look, she insists, "I'll be fine until he's stabilized."

She's the only doctor on board, and Clint's condition is more urgent than hers. He allows her to move past him and take over for Sam, who was pressing gauze to the hole in the archer's back. Once the wound finally stops bleeding, Sam and Milena use the medical scanning system the plane is equipped with to determine if the bullet pierced anything vital (which it didn't, luckily). So Milena cleans the wound on both sides and bandages it effectively without cutting off Clint's circulation. The man eventually sighs and closes his eyes after taking the pain medication, resting his head on folded arms.

"You're bleeding," Sam realizes, his eyes widening. Milena looks down and sees the gauze she had placed on her right side fell off at some point, leaving that corner of her shirt and pants stained red and dripping a little.

"Oh, I know—"

"She was grazed."

Milena almost jumps when she feels a hand on her shoulder, but instantly relaxes when she looks over her shoulder. She doesn't see Sam turn around and grab a few things.

"You'll need this." Sam hands Bucky some gauze and other necessary supplies.

Bucky nods his thanks and leads her back to her chair.

"You don't have to do this," she starts to say. She's very capable of dressing her own wounds, but she falls silent at the look he gives her.

She still grabs his wrist before he can lift the hem of her shirt. He looks up to see her biting her lip, her eyes pained.

"Sorry, I'm better at doctoring than being a patient," she admits with a weak smile. She knows logically it's just a scratch, especially with the comparison of Clint lying on his stomach. But it _stings_ , and she knows the moment he separates the blood-soaked fabric from her skin is not going to be fun.

"I need to clean it," Bucky says apologetically. After the bandage is on, he'll tackle the metal still hooked around her neck.

"Why don't we do this first then?" Sharon bends down next to Bucky on Milena's other side, holding a device that's a couple inches longer than a pencil, and a little larger than the width of a highlighter.

"We disconnected the signal long enough to get out of dodge, but they've probably got their connections up by now. Unfortunately you can't just pull the thing off," she tells Bucky, gesturing at the shock collar. "It'll sense the pressure and shock her prematurely."

His eyes narrow dangerously.

"Do it," he says, and steps back, allowing Sharon to fry the necessary wires. Behind him, Wanda rubs at her now free neck while Scott looks for a place to dump the scrap metal.

"They definitely weren't designed for comfort," she says.

"No kidding," Milena mutters, wincing when a tiny spark hits her skin.

"Sorry," Sharon says. "But try not to move."

When she's done, she leans back and motions to Bucky.

"Have at it," she says with a smile. "Gently."

"Thank you," Milena says. Sharon turns her smile on her before joining Steve in the cockpit, as his co-pilot.

Bucky takes back his spot in front of Milena and grasps the collar with both hands.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Yeah."

He inhales, and easily snaps it open. Looking up at her face reveals no discomfort, so he pulls it away from her and crushes it with his metallic hand, resisting the urge to toss it across the room. Instead he lets it fall by his knees and returns to what he was doing before Sharon came over.

"Just lean back a little," he instructs, and grabs some gauze and the disinfectant. "Relax and breathe easy."

Of course she knows this already, but she does what he says without comment for two reasons: one, because he looks so serious about doing it while still being so careful with her. Two, because she feels his lingering dark emotions after he nearly crumbled the metal collar into bits.

She credits herself with only wincing a little when he slowly peels her shirt away from the wound. By no means is it serious, but it weeps blood from being pried from the fabric. Her fingers find his shoulder when he gently swabs disinfectant, and dig in while he cleans away the blood.

"Sorry." She tries to relax her hand. He shakes his head.

"It's okay, do it if you need to." It doesn't hurt him like he knows he's hurting her (or at all), but a few more swabs and a bandage later, and it's done. Mila slides into a sitting position so that he's kneeling between her legs. Before he can fully react to their proximity (and the position he's in), she surprises him by slipping her arms around his neck and holding him close.

Bucky feels eyes on them, but it's the first time he's been able to breathe right knowing she's finally out of danger and in his reach, so if he's honest with himself, he doesn't really give a shit who's looking.

He wraps his right arm around her waist with a quiet exhale at her warmth.

" _Thank you_ ," she whispers above his ear, slipping out of English and nearly making him shiver pleasantly.

" _I'm sorry it took so long_." He allows himself to press his forehead to her shoulder for a second before pulling away, so he can sit in the empty chair on her right.

" _It was more comfortable than I expected._ "

That somehow makes his eyes darken, even though she meant to lighten the mood. So she distracts him with a question.

"When did you learn first aid?" she asks curiously. In the past, whenever he'd scraped or cut himself at work, he'd let her treat him without attempting it himself.

"Was part of my training," he replies, but then shakes his head and corrects himself. "At basic. Before the war."

_Wow_ , she thinks. _He was able to remember that?_

"Your memories really are coming back."

He sighs. "Yeah."

Feeling the darkness swirling in his emotions, she realizes not all of the returned memories are good ones.

She slips her hand into his metal one, earning his mildly surprised stare. She knows it's a bit bold for her, but she tries to distract him again with another question.

"Your arm…it's different somehow," she says, and it allows her to play off grabbing his hand by pulling it closer for her inspection. "It's missing the star, for one thing. But I would say that's an improvement."

A quick sweep of their surroundings shows that Wanda and Scott are dozing in the chairs not far behind them. Sam stayed at the back of the plane with Clint, now sitting on the floor against the wall with his eyes closed. Steve and Sharon are still at the controls talking quietly.

Bucky figures it's as much privacy they're going to get while on the plane, even if he wishes this conversation could wait until they're more alone.

"You won't understand unless I tell you what happened when Steve and I got to the facility," he says, though he already sees the lingering concern and curiosity in her eyes.

"What happened?" she asks predictably. He hesitates, glancing down at their joined hands.

"Sure you don't want to get some sleep first?" he says instead, but for practical reasons too. He notes the paleness of her usually fair, but warm skin, and the dark circles under her eyes.

She fixes him with a firm look.

" _I've spent the last week worrying for you_ ," she says plainly, emphasizing her point in Russian. " _They wouldn't tell us anything. Only that Zemo was captured. I didn't even know if you were alive, or if something happened…_ "

Bucky stops her when he sees the tears in her eyes—something he's seen of her too much lately. While she fights it, he only hesitates for a second or two before cradling her hand with both of his, threading their fingers together.

As briefly and quietly as he can, he tells her what happened after he and Steve escaped Berlin; how they were joined by Tony Stark and cornered Zemo, but were unwittingly lured themselves after finding the other Winter Soldiers shot dead in their cryo tubes.

And even though the thought of her disgust scares him, Bucky slips his hands out of hers and forces himself to tell her how he killed Howard and Maria Stark on HYDRA's orders twenty-five years ago, and recovered the serum that created the last Winter Soldiers.

He turns away from her to avoid seeing her reaction, seeing the fear of him in her eyes like he remembers from the centre in Berlin. He knows the reason why she couldn't stop him was because she had been terrified of him, of what he could do to her.

Milena watches him distance himself from her as the surprise fades and sadness for him settles in. She also surprises herself with her sympathy and sadness for Tony Stark; she lost her mother at a much younger age, but she was old enough for the brutality of it to sear into her brain. She can only imagine what he must have felt…what he must be now.

_Twenty-five years…_

Her eyes widen in realization.

_A flash of silver catches her eye and with what little awareness she has, she turns her head._

_**He** _ _is unlike anything she's ever seen._

_Tall and broad. Dark hair; long and unkempt and dripping wet. He walks almost silently in fluid motion, not mechanically, despite the metal arm._

Bucky had just been woken from cryo-stasis then, back in December of 1991. _That_ was the mission he'd been woken up for, and she escaped days after—most likely while they were prepping the volunteers for the serum.

"You didn't know what you were doing," she says, but she understands his guilt and self-loathing, even if she wishes he wouldn't put that on himself.

"Doesn't mean I didn't do it."

She frowns, because he sounds numb even though she can feel his emotions roiling, and she knows he isn't just thinking of the Starks.

"I knew him," he says, still looking at the ground. " _Before_ …I should've recognized him—"

Milena has to assume he means Howard Stark. She leans over and grabs the hand closest to her—the metal one—firmly enough to get his attention. Something inside her breaks a little at the haunted, vacant look in his eyes. She turns her chair toward him, grasps his other hand and pulls him to face her.

"They wanted it done," she says bluntly. "If you hadn't, someone else would. They would've stolen the serums another way and made the other Soldiers regardless."

"Not if they'd been destroyed before HYDRA could get to them," Bucky points out.

"Not even Stark would've destroyed them," she says. " _No one_ would have."

Not that she had known Howard Stark personally, but she read her fair share of history after Bucky came into her life. Especially about World War II while she was trying to help him piece together his past.

She read a few extensive articles that featured the innovations Stark brought to the war, Captain America's shield included. Even a few testimonials of people he worked with, who had seen his genius as well as his drive, not to mention his flair for the dramatic in his early years.

The fact that he was one of the greatest advocators for the super soldier project following Captain America spoke for itself; the temptation of creating _more_ perfect soldiers would've been too great, regardless of the time or era, but _especially_ in a time of war.

HYDRA hadn't stopped with the Winter Soldier, despite not having enough of the chemicals that made Bucky what he is now. Mikhail Malikov and the rest of HYDRA just became more inventive.

_And even after his experiment failed, there were others to take his place_ , Milena thinks. For a moment, she's tempted to tell him…

But she takes Bucky's silence, as well as the subtle shift in his eyes, as his understanding of what she's just told him. Not acceptance, not yet. But intuition tells her that Bucky hearing this much— _actually_ hearing it—is enough for now. So she lets go of his hands and her own retreat onto her lap, her moment of boldness lapsing.

"That still doesn't explain your arm," she says.

He finally looks at her then, sees the soft attempt at a smile on her face, and nearly sighs before telling her what happened next.

* * *

"But why would he do that for you?" she asks. T'Challa couldn't have felt _that_ guilty for trying to trying to kill him if he was already willing to house four Avengers, a new recruit, Milena (a relative nobody as far as she imagines the King of Wakanda is concerned), and the Winter Soldier.

"Part of it was for thinking I killed his father," he acknowledges.

"Which could've been settled by bringing you and Steve to his country and letting you heal, instead of turning you over to the authorities."

Bucky's gaze on her softens, but he resists the urge to tuck the strand of hair curled along her cheek, behind her ear.

"But he attacked you, knowing I was trying to protect you," he says. It makes her blush a little.

"So he gave you an arm?" Milena asks. She can't quite manage a smile when she thinks of why he _needed_ a new one.

Bucky's lips twitch in response. At first he hadn't wanted to. He felt like enough of a monster with the first arm, that he was finally free of it. Especially with the returned memories of how he'd gotten it, followed by the longest night of his life when he woke up in the middle of surgery, and in the worst pain he'd ever experienced in his life as they attached wires that felt like fire on his nerve endings.

But when T'Challa explained his reasoning, Bucky found himself rethinking things.

.

.

" _I would give you this as an opportunity," he says, "not only to help the Captain on his mission and find that young woman, but to take back what has been taken from you."_

_Bucky frowns darkly, looking down at his missing limb._

" _I don't think I'll get that back."_

" _You'll never be what you were," T'Challa acknowledges. "But your humanity can still be reclaimed."_

_Bucky glances down at the file on his lap._

" _How exactly does this prove I'm human?" he asks._

" _From now on when you fight," the king says, "it will be for, or against, whoever_ _ **you**_ _choose."_

.

.

And even though the idea of being put under for surgery gave him anxiety, he was able to push through it if it meant not being conscious during. And it took a heavy tranquilizer just to affect him like anesthetic would for a normal person. But when he woke up in a hospital bed for the second time, he felt a little more whole.

The arm is fully functional. The engineering of it seems so similar to the old one that Bucky suspects the Wakandans were somehow able to get a hold of some of HYDRA's files on him, now that the facility in Siberia is permanently out of commission.

"Can you feel with it?" Milena asks. It's something she's secretly always wanted to ask him.

And without knowing, she gets him out of his head when her fingers trail over the back of his left hand. The plates there tingle at her touch, the sensation travelling up his arm pleasantly.

"A bit," he admits. "Better than I did before."

Bucky watches her turn his hand over, fingers running over his palm and up the inside of his wrist while she smiles in awe that's familiar to him; she made the look every time he lifted her couch up one-handed so she could vacuum the dust balls underneath, or pulled her refrigerator forward effortlessly with the arm to catch a rat that darted behind it. He was as confused with her fascination then as he is now.

"What are you doing?" he asks. To him, it's the biggest sign of his threat to anyone and everyone. _Especially her_ , he thinks with a returning sense of trepidation that he's felt in the past, around the time he first decided to accept her help and was afraid to accidentally hurt her. Now that it's happened, he's even more afraid he'll do it again, and cause more than just a bruise next time.

T'Challa had offered vibranium to construct the prosthetic, but Bucky refused. He just wanted full range of mobility again, not to make himself even _more_ dangerous if what happened in Berlin ever happens again. After the scientists at T'Challa's disposal found that the metal was made of mostly titanium alloys, the new arm was made using the same elements. But Bucky can tell it's even sturdier now, slightly heavier, and it makes him wary of himself.

"Sorry," she smiles sheepishly, her cheeks turning pink. She stops for a second, until his (forced) indifferent expression tells her she isn't bothering him. It's the first time he's let her _really_ examine the arm, not just brief touches.

"It's just…amazing," she breathes, still toying with the smaller panels around his fingers. "Just the fact that you can feel at all with it, I mean…"

"It's stronger now," he warns her. But he can see from her wry look that she's not as concerned as she should be.

"Vibranium would have been stronger. And very expensive," she remarks. "You know how much this would've sold for on the black market?"

Bucky takes his arm back (carefully) with a subtle roll of his eyes.

"You lost out. We could've been _very_ rich," she teases. He raises a brow at her.

"We?" he manages a smirk. Milena's smile turns playful as she opens her mouth to reply, until a dark head pokes in between their chairs, near their shoulders.

"Hey lovebirds," Scott stage-whispers, a tired grin on his face. "Some of us have been trying to wrestle back some sleep. Since, ya know, we barely got two hours before the early wake-up call."

"Sorry," she offers in amusement when Bucky only shoots back a mildly annoyed look, both at being interrupted and at what he called them. But when Bucky catches Milena yawning and rubbing her face, his gaze shifts to her with veiled concern.

"You should sleep," he says. They've been talking for at least an hour, and he has a feeling that tonight hasn't been the first night she's gone without enough sleep.

"But…" Her protest weakens at his firm look.

"It's a long flight," he says. "I'll tell you more when you look less like a sheet."

She smiles wryly and sighs in resignation.

"Thank you for coming for me." Even though she's already thanked him, it just feels like the right thing to do in that moment.

Their eyes meet, light blue to honey brown; she sees so much swirling in those depths but she doesn't reach out and try to feel for them, not wanting to intrude on his thoughts. Bucky shakes his head minutely.

"From now on," he says, visibly thinking about his words like it's something he _needs_ to say, "you'll be safe. I promise."

He glances down at the crumbled metal device on the floor and _glares_ at it, before his eyes snap up to hers again.

" _That_ won't happen again."

He stands before she gets a chance to explore that answer. Not that she has the energy to at this point, but it makes her…curious, about other things they haven't touched on since the one night they danced.

So she watches him walk to the front of the plane and talk to Steve. And she wonders, not for the first time, just what the _hell_ she's gotten herself into now that she's officially a fugitive, and on an invisible jet plane full of fugitives headed to Africa.

.

.

.

"I'm sorry I got you roped into this, but thank you," Steve tells her, "for your help."

Sharon looks over at him, sighing softly through her nose though she smiles a little.

"I'll be okay," she says eventually. "No one got a good look at me."

She knocked them out or shot them first.

"I feel like I keep doing this to you," Steve says guiltily.

"You made it worth my while," she grins. Technically she's on leave right now, and _should_ be in D.C. She hasn't been called for interrogation yet, but this three-day leave of absence to finally settle the last of her aunt's affairs will hopefully not seem suspicious.

"But I think this has to be the last time," she admits. Steve nods in understanding, but he can't help being disappointed, knowing it'll be a long time before he'll be able to see her again.

"How long 'til you go back?" he asks. She sighs for real this time.

"Tomorrow morning."

Before Steve gets a chance to process this, Bucky appears behind him, setting a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, how many hours we got left?"

Steve smirks a bit and turns on the auto-pilot.

"Why, gettin' queasy?"

Bucky rolls his eyes and shoots back, "Like you at Coney Island?"

"That was _one_ time," Steve says. But his smile says he's happy Bucky remembers the otherwise great day they spent at the amusement park when they were kids.

"Maybe one time via-rollercoaster," he retorts. "My head might still be a little fuzzy, but—"

It's only then that he remembers they're not alone, and both glance over at Sharon, who's smirking with her arms crossed.

"No, no. Go on," she says. "Steve's embarrassing childhood mishaps? Totally worth being the invisible third wheel."

.

.

.

**WAKANDA, AFRICA –** _**Mid-Afternoon** _

The palace is nothing like she imagined. For some reason Milena expected ancient-looking architecture surrounded by wildlife and dense jungle—canopies of trees and _people_ , like the small villages they passed (still invisibly) overhead.

Well, she was half right.

Steve lands them on the roof of an incredibly large, incredibly modern building. Before he even attempts at radio contact, part of the roof splits, creating two panels apart from the circular one that remains for the jet to stand on.

"Forgot they put that tracer on the plane," Steve mutters.

"Can that be traced by more than just them?" Sharon asks.

"T'Challa said they'd make sure it couldn't be."

Bucky and Milena stare out the windows from their seats while Scott stands to get a closer look when their panel, and their jet, is lowered like an elevator— _down_ , _down_ , _down_ until solid pavement meets them, and other planes and big vehicles surround them in some kind of hangar.

"Grab your suits and equipment from the back," Sharon directs as Steve presses a button that lowers the ramp. Only then does Milena think it safe enough to click her seatbelt off. She's not exactly a nervous flyer, but landings are not her favorite. _That_ two-part landing in particular had her gripping the armrests for dear life. But by the time she gets the seatbelt off and looks up, there's a familiar hand being offered in front of her.

She let's Bucky pull her to her feet and smiles up at him gratefully. He returns it a little and leads her off the Quinjet behind Sam and Clint, who are moving slow to compensate for the archer's injury.

A beautiful dark-skinned woman in a fitted black dress is there to greet them, but somehow the cold indifference on her face and body language tells Milena almost as much as vaguely sensing her emotions did.

"Welcome to Wakanda," she says smoothly, though not enthusiastically. Her dark brown gaze shifts to Bucky and Steve. "Welcome back."

"Thank you," Steve says, ever polite.

"Your stay has been prepared for in advance," she says in clipped tones. "I will escort you."

"He needs medical treatment," Steve says while gesturing at Clint, who gives a wry snort even as Sam is half propping him up.

"I've had worse."

"You've still got a hole in your back, man," Sam points out. The woman presses on the com device in her ear and utters a few short phrases in a language not even Bucky recognizes.

"Follow me," she says in English.

She leads them to an elevator that brings them up to what seems to be a medical wing, where they're greeted by two nurses that help Clint onto a gurney. Since Sam has been playing nurse for most of the day anyway, he volunteers to go with, despite Clint's annoyed snapping about "not needing a damn babysitter to get a few stitches."

It leaves the rest of them to continue in the elevator, up a few floors.

"So, you're the Wakanda welcome wagon then?" Scott asks the nearly silent woman. She doesn't even spare him a glance, though Milena shoots him a warning look that all but Scott notices.

"I am Chief of Security," she says tersely. Milena is willing to bet that just her voice can cut through steel.

"Gotcha," Scott replies. His eyes and body shift decidedly closer to Steve.

* * *

She has her own room, spacious and painted in simple cream and beige tones, and includes a beautiful bathroom with more products than she has ever used on herself in her life. She takes great pleasure in soaking in the bathtub, scrubbing every inch of herself clean of the Raft and finally shaving her legs and underarms after a week. She even washes her hair twice, just to get out the musty smell and replace it with lavender.

Milena is more surprised by the few choices of clothes in the dresser and closet, even blushing a little at a couple of the less… _standard_ pairs of panties she finds underneath different colors of cotton briefs and high-cuts. The sizes were obviously estimated, a few mediums thrown in with the majority of smalls and extra smalls. But she's able to find a pair of comfortable yoga pants and a dark violet shirt, as well as a pair of black flats in a size seven before peaking out of her room and seeing Steve, Sharon and Bucky already sitting and talking on the couch.

The offhand question if anyone is hungry predictably turns all three heads.

All of them are staying on the same floor, in the same enclosed wing that is set up similarly to a hotel, except for the large living room area with a large High Definition TV, complete with surround sound. Next to it is a large dining table for eight people, made of dark and polished mahogany wood.

Next to _that_ is a fully stocked kitchen, complete with an island in the center, where four tall chairs were tucked in. There Bucky helps Milena cook an easy recipe of spaghetti that she hopes will be enough to feed two super soldiers, not to mention everyone else that might want some.

"When did _you_ learn how to cook?" Steve asks from where he and Sharon sit at the island. Bucky shrugs with a small grin.

"He didn't," Milena says tartly. "He just chops and mashes things for me."

It started back when she started insisting on cooking dinner for him after work if he was going to walk her all the way to her apartment. Once she asked if he would slice some tomatoes for her, but his hands fumbled with the vegetable (or fruit?) and nearly dropped it into the sink. She then showed him how to hold it on the cutting board, and how to slice it without making a mess of the squishy middle bits.

Eventually he was upgraded to onions and potatoes, but Milena peeled garlic herself while he mashed them with a knife after. It was actually good practice in control of his strength, since he broke two of her knives doing that particular task.

"Makes sense," Sharon remarks.

"You guys cookin'?" Sam says after coming off the elevator. Milena smiles and raises a wooden spoon covered in tomato sauce.

"How's Clint?" Steve asks. Sam takes in his surroundings and settles on leaning against the island counter with his arms crossed.

"He's out of surgery and in recovery, doped up on the good stuff. He'll be fine," he assures.

"Good," Steve nods. "Thanks for staying with him."

Sam waves him off.

"Oh God, please tell me that's food."

Scott looks more refreshed than anyone, smiling widely at the sight of Milena stirring sauce.

"No one said it was for you," she points out, though with her back turned, he doesn't see her grin. Scott's face falls as he takes a seat next to Sharon at the island.

"Really, after all the games of Twenty Questions I let you win, that's how you're gunna be?"

Milena smirks at him over her shoulder while Bucky hands her some garlic he finished mashing.

"There was no _letting_ me win. I won."

"Only 'cause you cheated," Scott teases, waving his hands mystically. "With your…mind stuff."

"Is that what we're calling it now?" Wanda remarks dryly. She heads into the kitchen and makes herself comfortable in the last chair, stealing a sip of Steve's water as she goes. Her hair is wet and her skin is pale, but Steve thinks she seems less fatigued. He does take his drink back with a pointed look when she offers an empty glass.

"It's an unfair advantage in any strategy game," Scott says.

"There's a strategy to Twenty Questions?" Steve asks with a smile.

" _Everything_ is strategy," Sharon says. "SHIELD trained new recruits with simulations that reminded me of _Risk_ and _Battleship_."

Bucky agrees with her, even though he has no idea what games they're talking about. Except for _Battleship_. He vaguely remembers a paper and pencil game he and Steve used to play to pass time on the barracks.

"There's no strategy to _**Battleship**_ ," Sam says. "It's hit and miss—shot in the dark."

"You read the person, you win the game," Sharon shrugs. Meanwhile, Steve notices the almost puzzled look on Bucky's face as he washes the knife he used in the sink.

"What's the matter?" he asks. Bucky blinks and looks up at him.

"What the hell is Twenty Questions?"

* * *

"That chief lady's scary as hell," Scott says around a mouthful of pasta. Sam, Steve and Sharon are wrapped up in their own conversation farther down the dining table, while Bucky seems to be content to just listen.

"You almost dug yourself an early grave," Milena remarks with a sip of her glass. Some kind of juice she found in the fridge, but it's sweet (pomegranates, or passion fruit?) and it's helping to settle her somewhat nauseous stomach. She's pretty sure it's just the stress of the past twenty-four hours finally kicking in, now that they're officially safe.

"Ya know, I tend to do that," he says with a sigh. And just like that, his thoughts turn to his little girl.

_Wish I could even call you, Peanut_.

He wonders how she's doing, if she saw her dad on the news. He hopes she isn't too worried about him…speaking of Hope, she's totally gunna kill him for getting himself into this mess.

Scott smiles to himself at the thought, only because he secretly almost enjoys it when she's angry. Yeah, his girlfriend is generally intimidating and her confidence is sexy as hell, but when she's actually _mad?_

She's beautifully fucking _terrifying_.

It makes him miss her even more, thinking about her face, her smile that can be soft as well as sweet when he finally says something right.

Scott eventually looks up and finds Milena looking over at him, concern thinly veiled in her eyes. He's able to manage a smile and goes back to shoveling food in his mouth.

She looks like she's about to say something, until T'Challa finally appears. He comes in through a door at the end of the hall, the one marking the entrance of the almost college dorm-like set up (just on a grander scale).

"Ah, I'm sorry I haven't been able to greet you all sooner," he says, approaching the table. Steve immediately stands and shakes hands with him, but he tells the rest of them to continue their meal.

"I suppose I've brought this too late, but I've had it prepared for you," he says, and gestures for three men in clean white uniforms to wheel in carts of delicious looking food, some of it still steaming.

"Wow," Steve says, as surprised and wide-eyed as everyone else. "You didn't have to go to the trouble—"

"Not at all," T'Challa dismisses. "What kind of host would I be if I did not offer you a feast on your first night reunited with your team. Consider all of this an apology for my part in the situation. It could have been avoided."

"Really, this is too much," Steve says earnestly. Helping him and his best friend from being caught is already more than he can ever repay, let alone sheltering his entire team, "But thank you."

T'Challa nods, and his attention shifts to Sharon when she stands. The two greet one another politely and respectfully.

"Your flight has been prepared for tomorrow morning," he tells her.

"Thank you, your highness."

"And since you all missed the celebration of my father's killer being brought to justice, I will have another feast be brought to you tomorrow night," he says, addressing everyone. Scott seemed the most excited by that, or just the least able to contain himself.

"Have _you_ eaten yet?" Steve asks with a slight grin, gesturing to the food carts in front of him. "There's plenty to go around."

After they grab their fill from the meats and salads and desserts T'Challa brought, he joins their table and informs them about the floor they will be living on—one of two built for staff residents. Theirs, located in the Right Wing, is only one unit out of four, just on this floor. Beyond the exit doors is a laundry room, as well as a gym (though there's a private training facility on one of the lower floors), a sauna, and an indoor pool separating the Right Wing and the Left Wing.

"It is imperative that you do not leave the palace without informing either me or my Chief of Security," he says. "Avoid the ground floor until the fifth. That is where most of the action is—people coming in and out, my government officials and so on."

"Your entire staff knows the situation?" Steve asks.

"They have been briefed, and have my orders for absolute secrecy." When Steve nods after a moment, T'Challa continues, "I will have secured laptops brought to each of you, as well as anymore clothes you may need. My staff made educated guesses on sizes."

"They did a great job of that actually," Scott says, voicing Milena's thoughts. She listens to T'Challa with a growing feeling of admiration and gratefulness. That he would go so far to accommodate complete and very wanted strangers was too generous, especially with the hefty sense of _burden_ she gets from him, along with a well-hidden, but still poignant grief underneath.

"You okay?" Bucky says quietly near her ear, startling her a little. She looks over and blinks up at him.

"Fine, why?"

"You haven't eaten anything." It's true, she got a plate of salad to accompany her juice, but she hasn't actually touched it. Whereas Bucky's eaten _everything_ : two plates of spaghetti, three entire steaks, salad because Milena nagged him until he speared some onto his plate, some kind of wild rice, and a few of the appetizers because they looked good, and they actually really were. Everything is good, including the small cake he's shoving into his mouth. But he did like their pasta the most.

"Just not hungry," she says, sipping a little at her drink. He sends her a look and silently offers her his other vanilla cake. Whether she's hungry or not, she needs to eat _something_ after nearly twenty hours.

"It's okay, I'm actually a bit nauseas," she admits. At his concerned look, she shakes her head and smiles.

"Just the stress of…everything, you know?" she says, sighing. When he only frowns, she hesitantly rests her hand on the metal one sitting on the table. "Don't make that face, I'm fine."

Bucky discreetly stares at her when Wanda asks her a question, watches her answer, but not with the animation and cheerfulness he remembers. He sees that and wonders really how "fine" she is.

.

.

.

_**A Few Hours Later** _

Milena lays awake in bed for a whole damn hour before she can't take it anymore.

She practically tears the blankets away from her body and doesn't bother with the satin robe hanging from the bathroom door. She just sneaks out of her door in the tank top and shorts she tried to go to bed in and tiptoes to the kitchen; she doesn't bother turning on any lights, instead opening the fridge and searching blearily. But there's so much fruit and veggie packs and other things wrapped in cellophane that she groans in dismay.

She tries the pantry next, moving boxes of cereal and granola aside for the box of donuts she can see hiding underneath some canned corn.

"Ah!" she exclaims softly, remembering that the sandwiches from the food carts are actually in the fridge—the "things wrapped in cellophane."

Using a steak knife to rip the box of donuts open ( _blessed chocolate,_ _ **fuck**_ _yes._ ), she bites into one while grabbing a turkey sandwich from the fridge. After catching the donut from falling out of her mouth and finishing it in two more huge bites ( _completely_ unnecessary), she actually _moans_ when her stomach happily agrees this was a good decision. She tears into the sandwich the same way, her mouth watering at the flavors.

" _I'll never do this to you again,_ " she mutters with her hand on her belly.

" _Promise?_ " a voice answers back in Russian.

Milena jumps with a gasp and whirls around, but her sandwich-holding hand goes to her racing heart in relief (she doesn't see the crumbs that fall onto her chest), swiftly followed by _anger_ and _embarrassment_.

" _What the hell are you doing?_ " she whisper-shouts. " _You scared the shit out of me!_ "

Bucky pushes off the living room couch's armrest and takes his time joining her in the kitchen, raising a brow when she points her half-eaten sandwich at him.

"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?" She still whispers aggressively, which makes him smile.

"I was already out here. You're the one who went stomping through the kitchen like a madwoman." He reaches behind her to steal a donut.

She steps back on reflex and glares up at him.

"What are you doing out here? It's late." She sets down her sandwich on the counter before crossing her arms, then realizes she has crumbs all over her chest and brushes them off with a blush.

Bucky raises a brow pointedly, but bites into the snack and shrugs.

"Couldn't sleep," he says with his mouth full. "Needed some air. Out here is the best I can do."

"Oh," she replies, a bit more solemn now that she concentrates on him and feels a lingering, dream-like fear buried underneath the relief and assurance of consciousness. Concern replaces her annoyance and embarrassment at being caught literally stuffing her face.

"You could've come to me," she says gently. "I'll dull them for you."

He catches her hands reaching up for him while chewing the last of a chocolate donut.

"It's okay. You don't have to."

She stares up at him in confusion.

"Bucky, you need your sleep."

"So do you," he says. His grip on her wrists tightens fractionally. "When was the last time you had a full night's sleep?"

Milena's eyes widen in surprise, before they fall along with her hands when they slip out of his. She's never told him about what keeps her up at night.

_But I guess he knows enough._

"Um…"

" _Mila._ " She winces at his tone, lacing her fingers together when she mutters a reply.

"What?" Bucky asks, even though she _knows_ with his advanced hearing that he heard her. When he tells her firmly to _look_ at him, she huffs and does so in annoyance.

"Before Berlin," she grates out. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair reflexively.

"But it'll be better here," she says. "I have a room, and a _real_ bed, and you're right across the hall so…I'll be fine."

Bucky studies her face, takes in her smile and her clear eyes, and the disarming way she makes things seem better and easier than they actually are. It's only been a week but he missed it more than he thought he would. He missed _her_.

But he doesn't realize he actually _said_ that until he watches her blush, which he can see even in the dim light from above the stove. He almost smiles and says something to cover it up, so she won't be so embarrassed, but she surprises him.

"I did too," she says softly. "It was only ten days, and it could've been a lot worse, but…"

_It felt longer._

His lips quirk at a smile, and they talk for a bit longer until she finishes eating her nearly forgotten sandwich. They make their way slowly back down the hall and stop in front of their respective doors, and she smiles at him one last time before heading into her room, closing the door behind her.

.

.

_What the hell_ , Bucky wonders when his head hits the pillow in his own room. He doesn't know how long he spends staring up at the ceiling in the dark, his brain going a million miles a minute as the last hour plays out there again.

He has no business being given her shy looks, seeing her blush just by the things he says, and earning her smiles when she just lost her home because of him— _everything_ she had and everything she worked for. Especially when he's so beyond _fucked up_ that every time he closes his eyes…

.

.

How the hell his tattered mind is still functioning, he still doesn't know. Maybe it's because most of his breakdown happened after jumping into the Potomac, after pulling Captain America to safety and nearly jumping back into the lake when memories of who he was, and what _they_ did and made him do, started to unlock in his mind.

Maybe it's his desire to keep her safe. Maybe it's because Steve is his anchor again, helping him keep his head above water every time some horrible thing he did replays in real time, like he's _there_ pulling the trigger and watching blood spray and a body drop.

Maybe it's because, when she's there, it's easier to shove down those memories and _be_ in the present.

But he knows for sure he doesn't want her going into his head anymore, and he certainly doesn't want her to live like a fugitive for the rest of her life.

.

.

Starting tomorrow, he's going to talk to Steve, and somehow…somehow, he'll find a way to give back something she lost.

That thought helps him close his eyes, gives him a sliver of hope that maybe what he dreams next won't be so bad. Bucky breathes deeply, allowing other thoughts to roll off of his fatigued body and mind.

.

.

.

Until a bloodcurdling scream wrenches his eyes open.


	6. Positive Touch

_"…_ _But your heart drifted off_ __  
Like the land split by sea  
I tried to go, to follow,  
To kneel down at your feet,"

_—Pentatonix, "Run to You"_

**VI: _Positive Touch_**

Bucky's out of bed before his brain even registers what he heard. But after another scream pierces the air just as loud as the first, he grabs hold of the metal door to his room and flings it open on his way to the hallway, forgetting that there's a button on the wall that slides them open automatically.

Steve is also awake and poised for a threat, but Bucky doesn't acknowledge him because he doesn't even see him come out of his room. Bucky's already gouging metal fingers into Milena's door, entering the room forcefully and ready to kill whoever touched her—

But the room is empty, and his heart sinks when Milena shoots up in the middle of her bed after being shocked awake at the door hitting the inside of wall (his fault). Her eyes take in her surroundings wildly as tears stream down her face while gasping for breath, but Bucky quickly goes to her when her breathing turns erratic and turns on the bedside lamp.

"Mila?" Her wide, dilated eyes still don't see him. So he sits on the edge of her bed and grabs her shoulder gently while his flesh hand presses against her cheek. She startles in fear and grabs onto his wrists, at the same time pushing away from him.

"Mila," he says more firmly, and grabs hold of her shaking hands. " _It's me. Look at me._ "

The words in her native language seem to trigger something, because she stills in his grasp and finally _looks_ at him, the fear in her eyes fading.

" _You're safe_ ," he promises.

"Bucky," she shudders his name and crumbles into tears, then clings to him in a way that surprises him. But he shifts closer and wraps his arms around her, letting her weep softly against his chest.

Bucky finally notices Steve lingering discreetly in the doorway, and nods when the other man's solemn eyes probe his questioningly. Steve nods in response and closes the door behind him (inwardly shaking his head at the indents in the metal).

"Gunna have to tell T'Challa about the doors," he sighs. Sam stands in front of him in a loose shirt and pajama pants, his arms crossed.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

"He's calming her down."

Sam has seen his share of horrors, things that he's shared with a VA psychiatrist and no one else.

But he doesn't really want to know what makes a person scream like that, especially someone who normally seems so level-headed.

Sam rubs the back of his neck when their first night at the Raft replays in his head involuntarily. It hadn't taken him that long to fall asleep, mostly because he'd been exhausted from a long day of fighting and being arrested and processed, then shipped to that dump in the middle of the ocean.

_"It's _not__ _my first panic attack," he hears her snap. Some irregular breathing and arguing later, followed by more labored breathing—his experience at the VA, and personal experience, telling him she's trying to collect herself—and eventually the cell block is quiet again._

_He doesn't know her story. All he knows is her name, that she looked out for Barnes in Romania, and that she's sort of like Wanda, but not really._

_The fact that Barnes—the walking, bionic icicle and all around surly-looking, scary fucking dude—is somehow sweet on her hadn't escaped his notice either._

_But if she dealt with him for a year, she must be something else._

Sam shakes his head and walks back to his room. His bed is too soft again, but he can deal.

"Guess we've all got shit to deal with," he murmurs.

* * *

After a while she gets so quiet that Bucky wonders if she fell asleep. But when he pulls back a little he's able to see her face; she's stopped crying, but he doesn't like the vacant look in her eyes.

"Mila," he calls softly. His fingers slide through her hair lightly, but it's enough to get her attention.

"I'm fine," she whispers coarsely.

"No you're not." Still, he hesitates before saying, "Wanna talk about it?"

She's still clinging to him, just not as desperately as before. But her grasp on his shirt tightens at his question.

"I'm surprised I didn't project it…when I grabbed you…"

"Your dream?" he asks. Milena shudders.

"It wasn't a dream."

Bucky understands, a lot better than most people would. He would also get it if she doesn't want to tell him.

And though he can probably guess what she saw, he's only ever described his worst memories to her vaguely. Hell, she probably saw bits of it whenever she dulled them in the past, which is why he didn't let her last night.

They've only gotten worse.

But her easing away pulls Bucky out of his thoughts. She looks down at her lap, fidgeting with her hands while he watches her think. But what she says ends up shocking him more than anything.

"I was a failed experiment."

She says it so quiet, so broken that it makes him want to lift her chin so he can look into her eyes and ask her what the hell she's talking about.

"What do you mean?" Bucky keeps his hands to himself instead. He wants to give her space if she needs it.

But Milena almost sighs. She had wanted to avoid this for a reason, and she knows he won't push her if she says she doesn't want to talk about it, but…it's kind of too late now.

* * *

"My father's project was not to create another Winter Soldier," she says eventually, "HYDRA wanted an asset that could take information from the target's mind, to control them if needed."

And when they no longer _needed_ the target…

_"Their Soldier can finish the job,"_ Malikov had said dismissively. _"It's what they trained him for."_

"They wanted another weapon," Bucky murmurs. Her nodding is a bit jerky, just as her voice shakes when she says,

"They wanted a telepath."

And not for lack of trying; they'd been developing that particular serum long before she became her father's assistant, and she'd seen the horrifying effects those test subjects—those _people_ suffered from, eventually losing their grip on reality and dying in agony. So it surprised everyone but her father when she survived the first "treatment."

But really, it was the HYDRA unit in Sokovia that was able to perfect in Wanda Maximoff what they hadn't in her, decades later. Milena doesn't know how, but they did it.

"They didn't get what they wanted," Milena breathes, squeezing her eyes shut. "I failed, and they probably would've killed me—"

"Stop," Bucky shushes her gently, and slides his arms around her when she dissolves into tears again.

His anger bubbles to the surface along with his hatred for HYDRA as his teeth grind together. Suddenly he feels like physically _ripping_ something apart just to burn off the fire in his veins—preferably one or two (or all) of the scientists that worked on him, on Mila and countless others. But he's glad that most of the people who originally worked on both of them were probably dead.

Actually, he almost wishes Malikov was still alive. So Bucky could find him.

"What they did," he starts, and has to stop and…really reach for what he wants to say, because he's not as good with words as he used to be. "Just because you're not the weapon they wanted…doesn't make you a failure."

Her breath hitches, and he can't see her squeezing her eyes tighter as she burrows against him. The sick part was, deep down, she had _wanted_ it to work. She hadn't wanted so many deaths to be in vain, only for more to follow if it didn't, or if she died in the process.

"But I never tried to stop them from doing this to anyone else," she says, and shakes her head. "I ran and hid while they continued to hurt people…and I did nothing."

"And what were you going to do?" he asks. He knows that she had been alone, unstable, and scared when she escaped to the Ukraine. Even if the authorities there (or anywhere else) had taken her seriously, it most likely would have led HYDRA right to her.

"I could have contacted SHIELD," she mumbles.

"You didn't even know what SHIELD was until you went to the U.S.," he says. And the organization was already infiltrated by HYDRA, being run by Alexander Pierce (the name still makes Bucky's blood boil).

"But I could've told them about you," Milena says, finally looking up at him with guilt heavy in her eyes. "They could've tried to find you, and help you."

Bucky's hands trail from her lower back to grasp her arms, his brows furrowing in disbelief at the thought of her feeling guilty for that. Pierce would've made sure she disappeared before word about the Winter Soldier being real and alive could spread.

"They wouldn't have," he says wryly. "The only one who helped me was Steve…and you."

Milena's gaze drops, as well as her hands from his chest.

"I just didn't go to the police when I recognized you," she says. "And that protected myself as much as it did for you."

Bucky sees through her though, shaking his head at her incredulously.

"It was a hell of a lot more than that." He raises his flesh hand to her cheek, brushes away the tears that try to slide down. He doesn't blame her for anything, and he doesn't know how else to convince her that she shouldn't blame herself. Not with what she's been able to make of herself, helping people the way she's helped him. Hell, she's part of the reason he wants to be…better. To be worthy of the faith Steve has in him.

"You're not a loaded gun, or a failure," Bucky says, echoing the words that helped him keep his sanity. "You're the strongest woman I know."

While her brown eyes widen in surprise, his fingers trail down the smooth skin of her cheek, down to rest along her jaw. When he can't help but brush his thumb against her pink lower lip, her breath hitches again, just slightly. His gaze travels from those lips to the blush dusting her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, to her eyes.

For once since Bucky started getting his memories back, he doesn't think about repercussions. He doesn't think at all.

When his lips touch hers and his fingers slide into her long hair, he feels more than he remembers this being like a lifetime ago. It's _heat_ that tingles under his skin when her small hands find the muscles of his back and shoulders, her slender fingers digging in when he slants his mouth across hers.

The tentativeness he started with dissolves when Milena clings to him tightly, in response to his fingers tangling in her reddish brown waves. His bionic hand trails down her body and stops at her waist. She shudders against him at the cold metal, but it's not unpleasant.

But the little moan she makes ignites his veins with a _different_ kind of fire his body recognizes. Even if he hasn't felt it since…

He can't remember. Bucky can't _think_ with her hands running up and down his back and into his hair after both his hands find her waist. And his lips burn a hot trail down her jaw, paying particular attention to the juncture between her neck and shoulder, dipping down to her collar bone and back.

But he slows to a stop at her shoulder, presses one more kiss over the fabric of her shirt. Over their panting breaths, he hears her heart beating only a bit faster than his own. Bucky closes his eyes and savors the feeling of her gentle fingers running through his hair, soothing out the tangles she made.

Milena doesn't know how long they stay like that, with her practically sitting in his lap as they calm down. Eventually though, he's the one to finally say something.

"You need to get some rest," he says quietly.

She can't help but tense as her heart sinks with trepidation. She doesn't want to lie alone in the dark, afraid to close her eyes even though her body is beyond tired.

When she doesn't answer after a while, Bucky sighs against her shoulder and maneuvers them, so that her legs are draped over his metal arm and the other supports her back.

"W-What are you—" she stammers with a wild blush.

He doesn't answer her, in favor of getting up from the bed with Milena in his grasp, only to sit back down with his back to the headboard. He deposits her next to him before lying back on the pillows and raising his left arm in invitation, only to second-guess himself a moment later.

"You—uh…it'll be more comfortable on the other side—"

She ignores him and makes herself comfortable at his side, hesitating only for a few seconds before pulling the blankets over them. When her head finds a place against his chest, he tentatively wraps his arm around her waist, loosely so it's not uncomfortable for her, and turns off the lamp on the nightstand.

Plunged into darkness, it takes a while for Bucky's eyes to get used to it. Still, he feels when a small hand comes to rest timidly on his chest. His lips twitch upward in response, and he finds himself covering the hand with his own larger one.

But Bucky is surprised to hear her soft, contented sigh as her body finally relaxes completely. He doesn't know it's because his strong heartbeat is just under her ear, drowning out her thoughts and quieting her exhausted mind.

.

.

.

**_Late-Morning_ **

Milena wakes up warm, wrapped up in blankets. And alone.

It's a little disconcerting, but she tries not to start over thinking things.

.

.

Until she can't help the overflow of things running wild in her head. And the more she lies in bed staring up at the white ceiling, the more she thinks Bucky must've felt uncomfortable at the idea of waking up next to her.

That kind of burns a hole in her stomach, because that was the single best night of sleep she's ever had.

_And the best damn kiss_ , her brain adds as she blushes faintly. Maybe it's one of those things that just comes _back_ to you, because it's hard to believe he hasn't had any practice since 1945.

But if he isn't here now, then… _does he regret it?_

It's a likely possibility, because if there was some kind of emergency, wouldn't he have woken her up to tell her? Maybe…maybe she was jumping to conclusions. He never promised to stay with her through the night, after all. But the more she thinks about it, though the more it makes sense.

He still feels so guilty for his past, and though she's made it clear that she doesn't hold it against him…maybe it's for the best he didn't stay.

_Even if he doesn't…_

She can't finish the thought, even in her own head. Instead, she tucks her knees under her chin and wraps her arms around her legs.

It's also very possible that she's majorly overreacting _and_ over thinking, but last night has left her feeling kind of raw, and exposed, and overly analytical as she usually gets when trying to rationalize her own emotional situations.

Part of her wants to see him.

A bigger part of her wants to hide in this room and never come out.

While her heart clenches painfully, tears burning her eyes, she lowers her head against her knees.

_He needs someone normal, more balanced_ , she decides. _Not a fake doctor who can't even fix herself._

.

.

.

"She lives," Clint remarks from his spot on the big comfy reclining chair in the living room. He and Wanda are watching a random sitcom on TV while Scott sits at the island, chowing down on something in a bowl. Whatever it is, he still doesn't look fully awake, even with a half-empty cup of coffee in front of him.

"You're one to talk," Milena manages to grin faintly. She makes her way to Clint, lays a hand on his shoulder and asks, "How do you feel?"

"I'm good," he waves her off and gestures over at the kitchen. "There's some coffee left."

"I made oatmeal," Wanda offers. "The pot is on the stove."

"Oatmeal," Milena says uncertainly. " _Like **kasha** , right?_"

Wanda's brows furrow thoughtfully. From what she remembers from the history lessons she learned when she was young, Sokovian culture became more similar to that of Slovakia or Hungary after it broke from the USSR, but there were some things that did stay the same, including the language.

" _Basically yes,_ " she answers in Russian. " _But more American, I guess._ "

Milena nods and begins her search in the cabinets for bowls while Wanda translates their conversation for a confused Clint.

"Top left," Scott says with his mouth full. She opens the cabinet to her left and comes up with glasses and ceramic mugs.

"Uh, other left. Sorry."

Milena shoots him a wry glance over her shoulder after she successfully retrieves a bowl.

"I'm not the only one getting a late start this morning," she comments mildly while she fills her bowl with light brown oats. She doesn't remember ever having oatmeal in America, but it does look and smell similar to _kasha_ , which she hasn't had in…maybe fifteen years.

"I'd say we deserve it," Scott quips, sipping at his coffee languidly. "But uh…are you okay?"

Milena blinks in confusion at the question, until her shoulders sag a little in realization.

_Oh._

"Sorry for waking you," she says, turning away with the excuse of grabbing a mug and pouring herself some coffee.

"Don't worry about it," he says with a slight smile. "Fell right back asleep."

At least after Cap explained the situation, and that it was being handled and she would be okay. But while he's no expert in reading people, she's in a half-tied robe that shows wrinkled clothes underneath. Even when they were in jail, there was something determined and lively in her despite the shitty situation, and he admired that about her. Now there's something in her eyes that's sadder, maybe even dull.

"I'm sure," Milena teases, and slides into the chair next to him.

"You know," he leans toward her conspiringly, "you didn't answer my question."

The smile behind her mug is ambiguous.

"Good observation," she smiles, until the taste of the coffee really hits her taste buds. "This isn't nearly strong enough."

Romanian coffee really packed a punch when she tried it for the first time upon moving to Bucharest, but she hadn't realized how desensitized it made her until just now. But the oatmeal is good. The cinnamon in it adds a nice touch.

"And you'd rather not talk about it, I gotcha," Scott says. She almost smiles gratefully.

"But, well, whatever happened last night," he trails, glancing at her. "…doesn't look like it's over."

Unknown to her, Milena's expression fades as she stares at nothing and taps her mug with a finger.

"No," she says. "I think it might be very over."

* * *

"Buck," Steve sighs, at a loss as he cards a hand through his hair anxiously. He can show it now that T'Challa and the scientists have left to give them some privacy. "That's a little extreme."

"Is it?" he asks quietly. "It could take them… _years_ to figure it out."

"Or it could take months," Steve points out. "We're safe here—"

"For how long?" he asks, knowing the other man doesn't have an answer. "I killed… _a lot of_ people. I hurt Milena and your friends…and I almost killed you. _Twice._ "

Steve opens his mouth to retort, but Bucky cuts him off firmly.

"Next time you might not be able to pull me out of it, Steve," he says. "I can't trust my brain, and I—"

Steve watches his oldest friend, sitting in one of the office chairs as he looks down at his hands, his brows furrowing as his jaw works and his teeth clench.

"I don't wanna hurt anyone else."

Those words come out quieter, but the punch of it hits Steve like a bucket of water when he realizes what all this is about.

"Not again, you mean," he says. Bucky looks up at him then, a little sharply.

"That's what you mean, right?" Steve crosses his arms and stands in front of Bucky almost challengingly. He had to say goodbye to Sharon Carter only a couple hours ago, so if he has to say goodbye to someone else important to him, he wants it to be for the right reasons.

"Do you really believe it when I say it wasn't your fault?" he asks. Bucky rolls his eyes and stands, prepared to walk out of the lab and to the gym and unload some steam before he takes out his frustration on the idiot in front of him.

But when Steve grabs him by the arm, that plan goes out the window as Bucky reflexively throws Steve's hand off and plants his feet.

"Buck—"

" _No_ , I **_fucking don't_** _!_ " he shouts, "As much as I want to—as much as I'd love to forget their faces again and forget how many times I pulled a fucking trigger or finished someone with my bare hands, I _can't_."

His hands reach up and grip his long hair painfully as he begins to pace the lab, anything to get some _space_.

"I might not have known why I was doing it, but I knew I was _damn_ good at it." His eyes find the floor when he finally stops, memories of blood splatter washing over him and painful twist in his gut. Where was his humanity, that he didn't even question it? He was sure he did, in the beginning, but after being wiped so many times, the question didn't stick.

"If you want to do this to protect people then I'll back your play," Steve says eventually. Calm and supportive, as he always is. "But if you're scared of living with yourself…then that's what I'm here for, Buck. Lean on me when you need to."

He grabs Bucky's shoulder this time, more comforting this time as his eyes soften, and a small smile lights his face when he adds, "You were there for me, even when needing help was the last thing on my mind."

Bucky shakes his head, though amusement starts to tug his mouth upwards involuntarily.

"You were always a better man than me," he admits, but it's Steve's turn to shake his head.

"I never knew a better man than you," he says, his smile widening a little. "That still hasn't changed."

Bucky snorts lightly at that, and almost sighs.

"I _have_ changed."

"I know," Steve nods. "But if you think you don't deserve to live your life…freezing yourself probably won't make you feel less guilty when you come out."

Bucky looks up at him then, a hint of teasing under the skepticism in his eyes.

"And what will? Since old age apparently means you know everything." Despite Steve rolling his eyes, the upturn of his lips betrays his amusement.

"Doing something constructive, something positive," he says, and borrowing from his good friend Sam, "Figure out what makes you happy, and let yourself enjoy it…I'm not the only one who cares about you, you know."

Bucky's eyes widen a little in realization, followed by a pinprick of guilt. He'd been so caught up in the scientists' diagnosis about his programming that he…didn't really think about what Mila would say to his idea.

_But this might still be the right thing_ , he thinks. Though the last thing he wants to do is hurt her, her safety is more important to him than…being _with_ her.

"What?" Steve asks, his eyes suspicious at the look on his best friend's face.

"Nothing."

"That doesn't look like nothing."

Bucky turns away from him a second time, suddenly very done with this long-ass conversation.

"Buck, come on."

"I need time to think."

Steve stares back at him and has to hold back a long sigh. He nods anyway.

"All right."

* * *

But it comes up again fifteen minutes later, while Sam is jogging on the treadmill while watching one of the TVs playing, and Steve and Bucky are sparring in the boxing ring set up in the middle of the large gym. There are a few staff members on other machines, but they've probably been instructed to keep their distance from their group in general.

"Something happen last night?" Steve asks, throwing a double punch combo that Bucky dodges, and aims a kick that sends Steve back a couple feet.

"None of your business," he replies bluntly.

"I dunno," Steve says. "You were pretty chatty back in the day. Wouldn't shut up about that kind of stuff, no matter how much I didn't— _oof—wanna hear it._ "

Bucky would've grinned at that, if Steve wasn't poking where his nose doesn't belong. The knee to the blonde's sternum followed by flipping him over on the mat was justified.

But both heads turn swiftly to the door at hearing it creak open, where Milena peeks in.

"Oh—" She stops herself, biting her lip in embarrassment even as she fully enters the gym. She looks over at Sam, who waves at her while jogging with headphones connected to the machine. "We made lunch for…everyone."

Her eyes hesitate on Bucky, before shifting to address Steve, who quickly gets up from the mat.

"Well, I _think_ we made enough. Lots of…sandwiches and other good stuff."

"What, food?" Sam asks, yanking out an ear bud.

"Sounds great," Steve says with an encouraging smile. "We'll be there in a minute."

"I'm goin' now," Sam says, and hops off the treadmill, grabbing a towel to wipe away his sweat before he joins Milena.

Bucky watches her smile and laugh a little at something Sam says as they wait for the elevator to open. But then her eyes glance back for a moment, finding Bucky's blue gaze like she could feel it. Her expression is strangely conflicted until she turns away, chatting with Sam until the elevator doors close behind them.

"Nothing happened, huh?" Bucky treats Steve's raised brows and knowing smile with an exasperated roll of his eyes.

"Shut up."

* * *

He…didn't expect this.

That morning he'd woken up early, as usual, but not alone. The feeling of waking up with Mila in his arms, watching her sleep peacefully, was something he'd never forget; being completely at ease himself wasn't something he often got to experience.

Bucky had been tempted to close his eyes and stay there for a few more hours. But as much as he wanted to, he felt like he should give her some space.

Last night had been a hard one for her, and he knows firsthand how reliving old memories tend to open old wounds too. And while Mila has always been very open to listening to him, everything he knows about her past is in broad strokes—aside from that first time she showed him how her abilities worked. That's the only time _he_ got a glimpse inside her head.

So he figured she would want some privacy.

Now Bucky gets to watch her and Scott serve everyone food with her barely glancing at him, until she gives him a plate of sandwiches and chips. He notices her consciously avoid brushing her fingers with his by grabbing the edge of the plate.

"Seconds are self-serve," she says cheerfully and moves onto the next person. But he knows her too well to believe the act.

She's nervous, and avoiding him, despite the smile on her face and how she interacts with everyone else normally but him. Is she embarrassed? Or is it something else…

_Does she…regret what happened?_

The thought hurts, more than he cares to admit even to himself.

Did she think it over this morning and decide she shouldn't have kissed him back?

Bucky thinks he gets his answer when they all sit down to a movie while they eat. He finds himself on one end of the couch next to Steve with an open space next to him. Wanda and Milena are the last to join them in the living room, both scoping out the remaining seats.

Bucky looks up at Milena, silently offering and curious to see what she'll do. Her gaze flicks away from his as she and Wanda claim the loveseat near the other side of the couch.

It's hard to pay attention to the movie after that. But twenty minutes in he gets up with the intended excuse of grabbing more food. Instead, he slides his plate in the sink and heads down the hall.

Bucky stops when he realizes he doesn't know where he's headed to. Needing to move though, he paces the hall as he thinks while trying not to think, and really it's just making him more frustrated.

_What am I doing?_ he thinks. _I should just—_

He stills when he hears her coming, knows it's her because he recognizes the soft but steady fall of her footsteps. They stop a few feet away from him.

"Are you okay?" she asks gently. Bucky doesn't turn to face her.

"Not avoiding me anymore?" he retorts. He doesn't see her sad frown.

"I didn't mean to."

"It's fine," Bucky shakes his head. "I…understand."

He hears her steps again, falling closer.

"What do you understand?" she asks, a tremor in her voice, "Because I know I sometimes think too much, but…I didn't understand being alone this morning."

Bucky finally looks back at her in surprise, both at what she said and the pain he sees in her glassy eyes.

"I get it if—if you were just comforting me last night, and nothing else," Milena says shakily, "but for me it was…different."

Looking down at the tile floor, she doesn't see how Bucky's mouth drops as he watches her in a state of shock while his brain furiously starts to connect the dots.

"It was _more_ ," she amends, her brows furrowing.

"It has been for a while, actually," Milena says wryly. She has to wipe the tears out of her eyes so she can get out what she wants to say. After months of lying to herself, she can finally own up to this, even if it changes everything.

"And I'm sorry I'm telling you this because I don't want things to be… _strange_ between us," she rambles. "I just…it _hurts_. But, um…don't worry, I…I'll figure out how to be normal again—"

Her breath hitches at realizing Bucky's much closer than he was before, grasping her upper arms firmly, but not painfully as he stares down at her. His long hair hangs down, nearly touching her face, but her brown eyes are captured by his piercing, saddened blue.

"You _do_ think too much," he says.

But before she can react, his lips are on hers and his hand is in her hair again, and any coherent thought she might've had goes out the window.


	7. Guys and Dolls

" _All my life_ _  
__Is changing everyday_ _  
__In every possible way  
I know I've felt like this before_ _  
__But now I'm feeling it even more_ _  
__Because it came from you…_ _  
__You're what I couldn't find_ _  
__A totally amazing mind_ _  
__So understanding and so kind,"_

— _The Cranberries, "Dreams"_

**VII:** **Guys and Dolls**

_**Thirty Minutes Earlier** _

She tries to make herself comfortable on the sofa, which shouldn't be so hard when the cushions feel like actual marshmallows. While balancing a plate of food on her lap, she shifts a little and tentatively relaxes when he finally stops watching her.

_**Is something wrong?** _

Milena jumps in her seat when a foreign voice echoes in her head. She looks over to Wanda's small smile and slightly glowing eyes. Milena glances down and sees the younger woman's hand making slow movements between them, hidden from the men by Milena's legs as red energy curls between Wanda's fingers.

_**What was that?** _

_What was what?_ Milena pushes the thought outward in confusion. It's not the first time they've communicated this way, but it's jarring when you're not expecting it.

_**He seems to be irritated at you snubbing him.** _

Milena discreetly sends her an annoyed side-glance, in case any of the guys start to pick up on their silent conversation. She doesn't think they will though. They seem too preoccupied with _Lethal Weapon_ playing on the screen.

_I did not_ _**snub** _ _him._

_**He seems irritated regardless.** _

Milena holds in a sigh, shaking her head almost imperceptibly.

_It's…complicated._

When Wanda only smiles softly at her, Milena finds herself caving at feeling the warmth of the young woman's understanding emotions. For some reason, the fact that Wanda won't push her (and the fact that this has been bottled inside her all day and making her crazy) just manages to make her crumble.

_Last night…I had to deal with something from my past_ , she thinks wearily. _He was there for me, and that somehow escalated into…more._

Wanda smiles faintly at Milena's blush, but nods minutely, encouraging her to continue.

_He wasn't there when I woke up,_ Milena thinks heavily. _And it made me realize we might not be on the same page…maybe it's better that way._

_**Why would it be better?**_ Wanda asks curiously.

_I may not be what he needs_ , she admits. The telepath tilts her head slightly.

_**I may have little experience with these things, but…isn't that up to him?** _

Milena doesn't have an answer to that. So she lets the conversation end there and tries to watch the movie even though at this point she doesn't really know what's happening or who the characters are, but she thinks she missed why the one with a decidedly 80s haircut seems so volatile and unnecessarily violent.

She finishes her lunch while not particularly trying to follow it, but after catching a blur of movement from the corner of her eye, she can't help but turn her head to follow Bucky's movements in the kitchen, dumping his empty plate in the sink before silently escaping down the hall.

Even from her seat, she senses his annoyance, confusion, and…hurt. It fades the farther he gets, but the sinking feeling in her chest doesn't go away. Especially when Steve is looking at her like he wants to say, " _Are you going after him, or do_ _ **I**_ _have to?_ "

With another soft smile of encouragement from Wanda, Milena finally gets up and utters a quiet "excuse me" when cutting across the boys on the couch. Scott just leans to the side and swings his gaze around her when she goes by, while Sam and Steve tuck in their legs and feet.

_Just make sure he's okay_ , she tells herself. _Don't ruin everything by running your mouth._

But once she sees him, confused and irritated with himself over something that was probably her own fault, she can't help it.

" _And I'm sorry I'm telling you this because I don't want things to be…_ _ **strange**_ _between us. I just…it hurts. But, um…don't worry, I…I'll figure out how to be normal again—"_

She says everything she told herself not to, and now she can't _stop_ talking. It's getting pretty ridiculous but she can't stop the jumbled mess that's coming out of her mouth—until he stops her with _his_ mouth, that is.

* * *

Eventually they part with a soft _pop_ of their lips, leaving Milena wide-eyed and both of them panting for breath. Bucky wipes under her eyes with his thumbs with a slight frown on his face. She didn't even realize she was crying (in relief).

"I thought you'd want some space," he says. "That's why I didn't stay."

Her brows furrow in confusion.

"Why would I—"

"You carry everyone else's problems," Bucky says pointedly. "You don't talk about yours."

Milena looks down, frowning. His hands slide down to her slender arms and grip them gently.

"If you were upset, why didn't you tell me earlier?" he asks. She shakes her head slightly.

"I don't know." She _did_ know. She feared hearing his rejection out loud more than hearing it in her head.

"But…" he starts, prompting her to look back up at him in curiosity. "Why did you think I didn't mean it?"

Out of anything she could've thought, Bucky can't figure out why she leapt to _that_ conclusion and stuck with it. He watches her look away again and blush with embarrassment, but his hands settling above her waist stop her from pulling back from him. Something's _definitely_ still off, and he's going to find out what.

Her hands curve tentatively along his arms, but she still doesn't look at him. She's annoyed with herself, that it's still so hard just to be open with him. But she _really_ hoped he wouldn't ask her that…and they're still in the middle of the damn _hallway_ , for God's sake.

"I don't know," she lies again. Unsuccessfully though, because she literally _feels_ his perceptive emotions calling her out.

"You're not the only one with a lie detector," he says flatly, but it teases a small smile onto her face. It fades when she sighs in defeat.

"I just…it's hard for me to believe that you want…me," she admits weakly.

Bucky's brows shoot up in surprised confusion as she ducks her head. He doesn't know it's because she feels shame.

"I'm a psychiatrist who can't deal with her own problems," she says ruefully. "You should be with someone more balanced. More _normal_."

Bucky looks down at her, brows furrowed as he frowns. _What the hell is she talking about?_

He raises his metal hand to gently lift her chin until her eyes meet his serious blue-gray gaze.

"I don't want normal," he says, or whatever the hell she thinks she's not. His grip on her waist tightens reflexively.

"I want…" he starts, then shakes his head and corrects himself. He shouldn't want what he doesn't deserve, no matter what Steve says. But if he was lucky enough for someone other than his oldest friend to give a damn about him, to actually _want_ to be with him,

"I need someone who understands."

Her eyes soften, but she still has to ask, "Understand what?"

" _This_." Bucky raises his metal arm again, looking down at it as the panels shift at will. He clenches a fist that makes inhuman, bionic sounds.

"Me," he says. To say his nights are fitful is an understatement. He's still playing catch-up on the seventy years he more or less missed while being a shadow assassin or alternatively on ice, and he still has the goddamn programming in his head. _What a catch._

But her gentle hands on his face get him out of his thoughts and make him focus on her warm brown eyes. _Beautiful._

He really does like her eyes the most. They're so bright and expressive, alive with some kind of spark that reminds him of the man he used to be. And Bucky remembers it still being there even after the war started to change him.

Mila surprises him out of his thoughts by pulling him down for a kiss. But he responds immediately, tightening his arms around her even though, like her, a big part in the back of his mind still can't believe this is entirely real when a year and a half ago he didn't remember his own name.

But when her back meets the wall (when did they start moving backwards?) and her fingers tangle pleasantly in his hair, he quickly (and very willingly) starts losing the ability to think.

.

.

.

Scott realizes something while the credits of _Lethal Weapon_ finally roll up the screen.

"Uh…weren't there seven of us?" he says, earning the attention of the four former Avengers in the room.

"Took you _that long_ , huh?" Sam asks wryly. Scott's face screws up in suspicion.

"I missed something…didn't I?"

Clint rolls his eyes, and Steve tosses Wanda a knowing look before heading to his room, smiling to himself.

"Yeah, Tic-Tac," Sam sighs heavily and reaches for the TV remote. "That'cha did."

.

.

.

"So, did you make up with the soldier?" Wanda asks, waving steam out of her face in effort to see her companion better. But the sauna is already in full force, making Milena feel like she's trying to see through fog. At least with the heat neither couldn't tell if she was blushing.

"We talked," Milena shrugs, but her slight grin betrays her. Wanda nods with a sly smile of her own.

"I see." Wanda blows out a huff of hair, finding the heat in the room stifling. _Do people really enjoy saunas?_ They're the only two here, so maybe not.

"I'll admit, I was wary of him," she says quietly. It earns Milena's attention. Her expression isn't accusatory, just attentively listening. It encourages Wanda to continue.

"Steve…he told me about the man he grew up with, fought with," she says with a shake of her head. "At first I didn't see it in him, but…his eyes lighten when he talks with Steve, and when he looks at you."

Milena's mouth drops open in surprise. She looks down and bites her lip against a small smile before adjusting the towel wrapped around her body.

"He started becoming the man he used to be long before he fully got his memories back," Milena says eventually. But she can tell he's more comfortable in his own body now that he knows himself.

"It's thanks to the Captain, really," she says. It's still weird for her to call him Steve, for some reason. Maybe because they still haven't _really_ had a conversation, or even a proper introduction.

"If it weren't for him, Bucky wouldn't have broken HYDRA's hold on him."

"Steve is loyal to a fault," Wanda says with a fond smile, but Milena tilts her head thoughtfully.

"I don't think Tony Stark would agree with you."

"That was different," Wanda says flatly. "Tony sided with the government…Steve couldn't."

"Why not?" Milena asks. "From what I could see, what the United Nations proposed was reasonable…and I'm sorry but…it didn't seem to be without basis either."

Wanda looks at her then, an indiscernible expression on her face. But Milena feels the weight of the other woman's guilt and feels a little guilty herself for it. She hadn't meant to bring up the incident in Lagos, however inadvertently. She'd just meant the damage that the Avengers have caused in general. And as much as she's grateful to Steve for protecting Bucky and getting them off the Raft, she still has her reservations about the man's views as far as his authority issues are concerned.

"Steve would have a better answer for you," Wanda says eventually. "But, I've seen firsthand how governments treat what they believe they control, even if they are people."

Milena quiets at that, because that's something _she_ certainly can't deny.

* * *

Steve narrowly dodges another punch and throws one back. After being blocked with a metal arm he gets an opening and takes it by landing a solid blow to the other man's midsection.

"I don't know how you can see with that mop of hair in your face."

He doesn't get a reply until his foot is caught and twisted, bringing them both down onto the mat before Steve can vault himself back onto his feet.

"I'm used to it," Bucky says, grunting when one of Steve's punches catches the side of his head.

"How are you guys _still_ going? It's been over half an hour!" Scott exclaims from his spot on the floor, pausing in his crunches.

"We said we'd go 'til one of us tapped out," Steve pants, but grinning as the man across the boxing ring rolls his shoulders. "Problem is, we're pretty even."

The goal was to finish what they started before lunch, but at this rate, Bucky doesn't see an end to it. Both of them are too competitive to quit, and Steve is too smart to let himself get caught in a metal headlock.

"We can always pick it up later," Bucky shrugs. Steve shoots him a wry grin.

"All right."

Then it becomes a battle of wills as both waits for the other to leave the ring first. Scott rolls his eyes and picks up his meager fifteen pound weights again so he can finish his crunches. He'll get to the heavy stuff later. _Super-charged showoffs_ , he mutters inwardly.

Steve finally relents and climbs over the ropes so he can towel off and head to the machines.

"I guess you and Milena worked things out?"

"Yeah." Bucky (hiding a smirk) goes to the nearby barbells and decides to start light. A hundred pounds on each side.

"I have to ask," Steve starts between reps of seated shoulder presses. "Why Romania?"

"Well," Bucky says, "Couldn't stay in the U.S., could I?"

Steve concedes that point.

"Guess not."

"Hitched a cargo ship, then a train. I just…didn't stop until I found a safe place."

Steve nods, though he gets the feeling it was more than just safety that factored in where Bucky decided to stop. That feeling is only confirmed by Bucky setting down the barbell at his feet and staring down at the ground, like he was reliving those months of continuously looking over his shoulder for a threat.

"I had to get answers, and find a place to disappear while doing it," he says. "The plan was to move every three months or so."

Steve smiles a bit at that.

"You stayed there for over a year," he points out. Bucky looks over at him then, with the corner of his mouth pulling upwards.

"I found her. Or she found me, I guess," he shrugs, smiling at the memory of her running straight into him. _Glaring_ at him without fear and making him help her up.

"She made it…easier to remember stuff, to feel like a person again." About a week after Mila told him who she was, she gave him a notebook to write down anything that came to mind that he didn't want to forget. At first he wrote in Russian, but memories flowed easier when he started writing in English—her suggestion when he found himself starting a thought in one language and ending in another.

"I'm glad, Buck," Steve says, a rare soft smile on his face. But Bucky's fades when a darker thought chases it away.

"Yeah. Now she can't go back."

* * *

"Aw Jesus, what're you guys doin' to me?" Clint groans when Sam breaks out the booze he found in the kitchen cabinets. The archer sits at the island with his head in his hands.

"Stop whining," Milena smirks. "You'll be off the antibiotics soon enough."

"See if I take a bullet for you next time," he mutters darkly. She gives him a stern look and moves a shot glass away from his reach.

"Drink your orange juice."

"We having a party?" Scott asks while reaching into the fridge for the carton of passion fruit juice. Milena ducks away from him with a wrinkle of her nose as she grabs a water bottle for herself. The man smells like dried sweat and a musty locker room.

"If we do, please shower first."

"Not a bad idea. _Both_ of 'em," Sam remarks. He twists off the lid on a jar of scotch and nearly salivates.

"We missed _Cat Man's_ party," he grins. "Might as well have one of our own if he's bringin' the food."

Milena shoots him a disapproving look for making fun of their too-generous host, but she likes the idea. It'll help them all get to know each other better and…it just sounds like fun.

"We got music?" Scott asks. Sam looks over at the sound system in the living room thoughtfully. They got their laptops an hour ago with chargers and USB cables, so he should be able to connect to the surround sound. They could move the furniture around and make a nice dance floor.

"I could make it work."

"What, you'll play DJ?" Clint remarks with a smirk.

"And bartender," Sam grins back. "Since you'll be suckin' on that juice all night."

"Should we dress up a little?" Milena says in effort to diffuse any tension before it starts, and pretends to ignore Clint's grumbling about what the other man can suck on. Sam just rolls his eyes and continues pouring himself a glass of scotch.

"Classy casual?" he offers with half a shrug. "I dunno how many options you got in your closet. Mine's got some stuff to choose from."

"Didn't T'Challa say something last night about new clothes?" Scott asks.

"That might not be for a couple days. He's making arrangements for seven people," Milena reminds him, then turns to Sam with a small grin. "I'm all for actually _trying_ on what I look like for a change."

She's already showered since trying out the sauna with Wanda, but she only braided her wet hair after washing and combing it. _I think I saw some makeup on those shelves in the bathroom…and a hairdryer. I haven't even put on makeup since before Berlin._

Sam takes a probing sip of his drink, swallows past the burn of it and smiles widely. _That's some damn good stuff._

"Aw, hell yeah. This is gunna be good."

"What's goin' on?" Steve asks as he and Bucky enter Unit 2, the building's designation for their section of apartments on the staff residential floors. Scott just calls it U2 (and smiles at his own semi-pun even though Sam rolls his eyes).

"Get your dancin' shoes, Cap. We're havin' a party," Sam exclaims jovially, and immediately starts filling him in. Bucky looks less than excited, but he greets Milena with a small smile and a discreet touch to the small of her back.

"Have a good workout?" she smiles back. He nods, and leans toward her to reply quietly in Russian,

" _How was the sauna?_ " Her blush makes him smile.

_She smells good._ Probably her shampoo, or maybe her soap. He doesn't know for sure, but she smells like flowers.

" _Humid_ ," she says." _I don't know how we stayed in there for so long._ "

He tilts his head thoughtfully.

" _I've never tried a sauna._ " He doesn't _think_.

" _It's all right, but have someone suffer the heat with you_ ," she says. " _And it gets really wet after a while._ "

" _Really?_ "

_"Yes, I was soaked coming out of there._ "

After hanging out with Scott and Clint for hours on end trying to entertain themselves (putting up with their crude, but admittedly hilarious sense of humor), Milena blushes when she realizes what that _could_ sound like a few seconds after she says it.

" _I mean, my clothes were wet. **I** wasn't...well, my hair was..._ " Bucky looks down at her strangely while she blushes scarlet. Though she now wants to die of embarrassment, Milena watches him quickly put together what she hadn't meant to.

" _Just…never mind. Forget I said anything,_ " she waves dismissively, but she feels his surprised (and laughing) emotions as well as sees the mischievous glint in his eyes.

She bites her lip and partially covers her mouth with her fingers, trying not to look up at his wide smirk.

" _I guess you'll have to join me then_ ," he replies, innocently blinking when Milena freezes and gives him a look crossed between shocked, embarrassed, and amused.

"I'll go tell Wanda about tonight," she tells Sam, who nods and goes back to talking to Steve about current music.

With one last glance at Bucky that warns him to _behave_ , she ignores his cheeky smile and sets out for Wanda. Before she leaves the kitchen though, Clint catches her attention with a quiet, "Hey." She turns to see a subtle smirk on his face.

"Just because you're not speakin' in English, doesn't mean you're flirting's not obnoxious."

Her eyes widen in surprise as she blushes. But not knowing what to say, she keeps walking instead of answering, shaking her head when she can feel the man laughing at her.

.

.

.

Bucky doesn't really care about getting ready for later, no matter how much his old self would've been game for music and dancing and good food. The only thing that truly makes him curious is whatever Mila's doing in the room across from his. He heard a hairdryer going when he passed by not too long ago, and it makes him wonder if she's getting dressed up. She didn't do that so much in the past, but she always dressed professionally for work; usually slacks and blouses, or nice blazers. There was that one dress though.

His body is more or less on auto-pilot while he puts on some dark jeans and a jacket over a buttoned-down shirt. _But it was black_ , he thinks. A bit short and hugging her hips, thin straps along her shoulders. The heels had made it though—a deep red the same color as her lips that did wonders for her legs, had her standing straighter with a little more confidence than he was used to seeing on her.

And while it wasn't the first time he'd found her attractive, it was the first night he remembers feeling protective of her. Not just for her safety, but for _him_ , even though he had no right to be possessive when they entered that restaurant.

Dressed and ready to go, Bucky pushes that thought away and evaluates himself in the bathroom mirror. _Not terrible for pushing 100_ , he surmises, rubbing a hand over his bearded face. But is it really a beard though? It's more than stubble, at least. _Not as clean cut as you used to be._

One or two girls back in the day had liked that—that he always looked clean shaven even if his uniform wasn't exactly cornstarch pressed. Not for the first time, he wonders what Mila would've made of the Bucky Barnes before the war. _During_ the war even.

He lets that thought go when he's out of his room and in the kitchen waiting for Sam to pour him a third shot of tequila. Because why the fuck not if he can't get drunk. He learned that the hard way after Steve got him out of the HYDRA facility, back in '43.

Actually, if memory serves him, Dum Dum and Jones learned the hard way after coming up with the bright idea of a three-way drinking contest.

"Hey, you remember what was in those shots Dugan and Jones got sick on at that Christmas party?" he asks Steve, who thinks for a moment before shaking his head, smiling.

"Bad whiskey, if I remember right."

"I think the word you're looking for is 'cheap.'"

"You finished the rest of the jug when you figured out it wasn't hittin' you."

"Didn't feel a thing," Bucky shakes his head. "But the vodka didn't even burn after that."

"Oh yeah, Howard's stash," Steve remembers fondly. He's never been a big drinker, but even _he_ could appreciate the imported, very _expensive_ shots they took when it was just their team of seven Commandos, occupying a table or two in the corner of the mess hall.

"You didn't feel right about us taking it," Bucky smirks, "Always with that pole stuck up your ass."

Steve rolls his eyes, but can't stamp out the grin that tugs at his mouth. It's been a while since they've had this—a moment when Bucky almost _sounds_ like the Bucky he knew.

"You always had an answer for everything," he grumbles, and takes a swig of his cold beer. He doesn't recognize the brand, but it's damn good stuff.

Bucky smirks. "I remember being right."

" _If he didn't want anybody nabbin' it, shouldn't 'a left a prize like that lying around."_

Steve shakes his head even though his smile is permanent on his face.

"So you're in Cap's boat, huh?" Sam says. Bucky accepts his pitying look (and a glass of scotch on the rocks) with a "what can you do?"-shrug. He honestly forgot the man was still in the kitchen mixing drinks and adding songs to something called a "playlist" on his laptop.

"Damn, that sucks."

"The way I see it, we reap the benefits without the consequences," Steve grins.

"What's the point if we can't get a 'Star-Spangled Banner' table dance from the spangley man himself," Clint points out dryly. He joins them, sitting heavily at the bar. Bucky can't help but snort into his scotch.

"Jesus, how much booze did the guy leave us with?" the archer exclaims when he sees all the different bottles laid out on the kitchen counter.

"He brought more with the food after I told him what was goin' down," Sam says, and gestures to the dining room where huge trays of food are set up on the table. "I invited him to stay and hang, but he's got some _kingly duties_ to take care of somewhere."

"Food's here?" Scott asks. He emerges from the hall and peeks over at the cellophane-wrapped trays with excitement.

"Not 'til everybody gets out here, man."

"Who's left?"

"The ladies, dumbass," Sam rolls his eyes. Scott sends him a mocking look.

"Can't be long now," Steve says. "I saw Wanda head into Milena's room when I came out."

He doesn't know how long it takes for a girl to get dolled up, but it _has_ been almost an hour since Wanda breezed past him muttering something about stubborn zippers.

Clint only gives him a look that speaks of experience, and not to hold his breath.

"How long _does_ it take?" Bucky murmurs. He's been sitting here for—

"Why do men always ask that?" Heels clack against the tile floors after a door slides closed.

"Gives us something to complain about," Clint smirks. Bucky watches Milena grin and keep her head held high when she and Wanda make their way into the kitchen. His eyes travel from the top of the simple, navy blue dress, down to her black suede heels and back up again. They linger on her dark red lips when they pull into a smile, then _her_ eyes that pin him in place until she touches his arm (nearly making him jump).

"Hi," she says. Pink dusts her cheeks at his stare. Unknown to both of them, Steve and Wanda share knowing smiles. Steve sends Sam a pointed look and leads their group to the dining room, so they can start eating.

"Too much?" she whispers. "I tried on a skirt but it didn't fit right—"

Bucky shakes his head.

"…You look nice," he eventually manages. _I should've shaved._

"So do you," Milena smiles and runs a hand down his dark blue shirt. "We match."

He almost chuckles and tucks a stray curl behind her ear. Under the kitchen lighting the reddish strands are brighter than the brown ones, and feel softer than usual between his fingers. They frame her face in smooth waves that remind him of the way girls styled their hair way back when.

"Not very evenly," he says, grinning slightly. But before she can protest (she opens her mouth to do just that), he steers her into the dining room with a hand to the small of her back.

"Let's get some food before Steve finishes it all."

* * *

Months ago at that restaurant in Bucharest, Bucky remembers being annoyed when they walked in, a couple of men's eyes following her. He made sure to pull out her chair for her and let his hand touch her shoulder familiarly, but with a pointed glance behind him before he sat down.

From what he could tell, Milena hadn't noticed any of it, not even Bucky being quieter than usual while she told him some story about how she'd spilled toner ink all over herself trying to fix the printer jam at the office. On its own, that sounds kind of boring. But the way she told it with her hands flailing around dramatically, eyes sparkling with laughter while imitating her deadpan, unimpressed boss—it was all intrinsically _Mila_ after she snorted a giggle into her wine.

Bucky can't help but feel protective of that. Of knowing he's the only one who knows her like that. Maybe that's why he feels conflicted now, watching her and Steve talk in the kitchen while she pours him a drink and seems to be listening to him intently. Bucky _wants_ them to get along, so why does he feel uncomfortable?

_I haven't even told him about us._ And maybe that's part of it. He and Milena hadn't explicitly decided to keep it between them for now, but when the opportunity presented itself this afternoon, Bucky hesitated for some reason.

Steve had been right about one thing. His old self wouldn't have waited more than a minute to tell his best friend.

* * *

"Ever had a rum and coke?"

"Can't say I have."

"My roommate introduced me to it back in college," Milena says over the loud music.

"In Europe?"

"Boston." He nods, remembering Tony had said something about that in her file. He realizes then that he doesn't know much about Milena at all besides what little Bucky's told him, and the little he knows about her background.

But Steve knows, at the very least, that she's strong-willed enough to fight in a battle that had nothing to do with her, if only for his best friend's sake. That alone makes him want to get to know her.

"It's a simple drink to start with," she explains with a smile. "Not that it matters for you."

He shrugs and takes a sip of it anyway. _Pretty good._

"So this is what passes for music nowadays?" Steve asks, gesturing to the speakers above. Milena shakes her head helplessly. Her roommate introduced her to a lot of things in America, music being one of the biggest things she gravitated to. But she prefers the catchy hits of the 80s and the classic feel of the 40s and 50s than the pop station that Sam is playing while he tries to connect his playlist.

"Guess so," she says. "You'd probably like 60s and 70s music better. Artists more often made songs that told stories."

Steve kind of wishes he still had his list, though most of it he could probably find from memory.

"So uh…you settling in okay?" he asks. Milena can't tell what's on his mind, but she senses his focus on her and wonders what he's trying to accomplish.

"I think so. It's…different then what I'm used to," she admits. It's close quarters. Fairly luxurious quarters, to be sure. But she's used to walking through crowded streets every day, browsing through outdoor markets and taking long walks to see the older, historical buildings in the city, just because she could.

"I'm sorry you got caught up in our problems," Steve says earnestly. "Pretty sure that's the last thing Bucky wanted."

Milena shakes her head.

"My own decisions led me here," she says. Then her lips quirk up into a smile. "Yes, Bucky was a fair part it, but…I don't regret what happened."

It's quiet between them for a moment, and without the distraction of conversation, something tickles at Milena's awareness. She realizes what it is when she looks up and meets Bucky's eyes across the room.

_Are we taking too long?_ she wonders at feeling the pinprick of his annoyance, even if his expression is more or less stoic as he sits on the couch in the living room.

"I wanted to thank you," Steve says eventually, earning her attention. "He says you were a good influence on 'im."

He watches her smile softly, genuinely.

"He might've done more for me," Milena says. "I don't think he meant to, but he gave me some clarity on a few things."

"Like what?" Steve asks.

"All right, I fixed it y'all," Sam exclaims as Michael Jackson starts to play on the surround sound. Scott is all for it, dragging Wanda on the makeshift dance floor and busting a couple moves that are probably more than a little tipsy. Wanda actually _giggles_ , something that catches Milena's attention immediately. _She must be a lightweight, poor thing._ She knows Scott isn't, because he's already had the better part of three shots of tequila and two mixed drinks.

Milena flashes Steve a smile and raises a glass of scotch.

"Bucky must be bored by now. Let's get him a refill."

* * *

Milena tried to say no at first. She's been talking and drinking for an hour, and dancing in front of people is _not_ her forte. But after downing a couple more shots of liquid courage (vodka on a dare from Sam), she feels just wild enough to take Scott's hand and let him twirl her a couple times until she gets dizzy. Even though it's only her, Wanda and Sam in the middle of the living room, laughing at Scott's enthusiastic lip syncing to "Too Much Time on My Hands," the room doesn't feel empty. It's actually _really_ loud. Probably too loud, but if they get complaints tomorrow they can blame Sam.

"Look at those squares sittin' over there," Sam gestures mockingly over at the three men sitting on the couch, pausing in their conversation at being called out.

"Old, Grumpy, and Frumpy," he points in succession.

"How the hell am _I_ the old one here?" Clint exclaims. Bucky rolls his eyes while Steve just looks resigned. But he does look down at his jeans and dark gray jacket.

"This isn't frumpy, is it?" Steve asks Bucky, who shrugs. But he looks up when Milena comes back to the couch looking for the drink she left on the coffee table.

"You guys should come dance!" she smiles widely once she finds her third (or fourth?) rum and coke, and proceeds to down the rest of it. It makes Bucky concerned when she sways slightly on her feet, but quickly corrects herself. _How much has she had?_

"Mila," he calls out to her, but he doesn't expect her to suddenly plop down into his lap and give him a beaming smile. Her legs tangle with his while her arms wrap around his neck. His hands go to her waist automatically, and the amused men on either side scoot over, giving the couple a wide berth.

"You used to go dancing all th' time, right?" When Bucky is too shocked to answer her right away, she looks over at Steve for confirmation.

"Yeah, he did," he supplies with a smile (that only gets bigger when Bucky glares at him).

"Ooh, teach me the moves! The…flip stuff," she says with a wave of her hand. "I'd fall on my face, but it'd still be fun!"

"I'm not sure I remember," Bucky hedges, but the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end when she leans close, pressing her body up against him to whisper in his ear.

"You know, the leather jacket is badass and all, but aren't you _hot_ in this thing?"

His mouth falls open in surprise, but he can feel her hands gripping the sides of said jacket.

"How much have you had to drink?" he asks when he's sure his voice won't fail him. Milena's eyes go wide as she tries to think.

"I dunno! But I'm gunna dance sommore." Bucky looks at her uncertainly.

"Are you sure—"

"Yep!" She gives him a somewhat sloppy kiss on the cheek before she gets up, using his arms as leverage, and rejoins the group on the "dance floor," while Bucky finds himself fighting embarrassment.

"So," Steve says, smiling. "You guys worked it out, huh?"

Clint snorts into his glass of soda (which may or may not be spiked with vodka). Bucky blinks, still wondering what the hell just happened.

"Uh…yeah."

Clint rolls his eyes in exasperation. He swears to fuck he's the only one here with eyes and a functioning brain (even if he didn't see Nat's crush on Banner coming, he's seen _this_ coming an entire continent away).

"Man, they've been makin' bedroom eyes since lunch."

.

.

.

"Did I embarrass myself? Tell me th' truth."

"Ask me that tomorrow." Bucky quickly presses the button that makes Milena's bedroom door slide open and returns his hand to supporting her back. He walks in with her in his arms, finally grateful for the technology making all the doors close automatically.

"I wasn't _trying_ to get drunk t'night," she says honestly.

"Really?" he asks, smirking a bit.

"No, 'cuz I wanted to make out sommore. So _don't_ think you're taking advantage if you do, 'cuz I wan-ned to _anyway_."

He shakes his head in amusement.

"Sure."

"'Cuz I _really_ like you. Really." Bucky smiles and bends down over the bed with her still in his arms, but drops her when she's mere inches from the mattress. She squeals in surprise and bounces a little, then giggles up at him with too bright eyes. It's too damn infectious. His smile deepens involuntarily as he looks down at her.

She beckons to him with a hand outstretched, and he lets her pull him down until he's sitting on the edge of the bed. She doesn't let go of him though.

Instead, she tugs his hand further (making him scoot closer) until she can press his hand to her cheek. He brushes his thumb against her skin watches her relax into an expression of contentment.

"You just…you're _really great_ ," she whispers loudly. "Really sweet. And you try so hard not to hurt, so it hurts me when I can't help enough. But you still try to make sure _I'm_ okay."

Bucky's smile fades, but he slides his fingers through her hair soothingly.

"You don't have to worry about me so much."

Milena squeezes his hand and glares at him playfully.

"Course I do. You're my…what'd girls say back then?" she wonders aloud. Her eyes search the ceiling for answers, but as soon as she settles on something she smiles widely.

"You're my _guy_ …or something."

He arches a brow, but can't help but smile back. His cheeks are starting to hurt.

"You my _gal_ then?" he asks wryly. Though he surprises himself at just how _Brooklyn_ he sounded just then. _Still in me, I guess._

Milena giggles. "I'm your doll!"

Bucky chuckles.

"All right."

"Say it." He raises both brows at her this time, but doesn't have it in his heart to say no.

"'Kay, doll. Time for bed."

"Stay with me," she pleads, tugging his hand back to her when he tries to get up.

"Mila," Bucky sighs. No matter how much he wants to, she's very drunk. That doesn't sit well with him, for propriety's sake. No matter what she says.

"I mean it… _we don't have to be alone tonight_ ," she emphasizes in Russian, more serious and earnest than she has been. " _Stay with me, please?_ "

In that moment, Bucky realizes her eyes could convince him to do close to anything. He sighs a bit more heavily and teases her to scoot over.

"Wait! Get comfter'ble. I don't mind." Bucky looks at her in confusion, until she gestures to his jacket and jeans with a blush on her face that probably has nothing to do with alcohol. But he shakes his head with a smile.

"Wait here."

"Where're you going?"

"I'll be right back." He adds, " _I promise_ ," after the stern look she gives him. He makes it back after he's changed into a loose shirt and sweatpants. While he is honestly surprised that Mila's still awake, he's more surprised that she's trying and failing to unzip her dress in the back. She looks up at him with another blush and pitiful eyes.

"Help?"

Bucky takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed. He asks her to turn around.

" _You must be testing my restraint_ ," he mutters.

"…Was that Italian?" she glances back to ask him. Her brows are furrowed in confusion while she pulls her tangled mass of hair over one shoulder.

"Yeah." He smiles faintly as his fingers find the clasp at the top of the zipper and manage to unhook it.

"Halfway down is fine," she says, biting her lip in embarrassment. "I don't know Italian."

She doesn't see his smile pull into a smirk.

" _Lo so._ " Milena grows more annoyed as he pulls down the zipper and stops halfway down her back. She gets up (with his help) and throws him a peeved look on her way to pulling out a shirt and shorts from the nearby dresser.

"That's not very nice," she slurs, and closes the bathroom door behind her pointedly. But when she's changed and back in bed with the blankets over them both, she doesn't hesitate to pull his arms around her. She really should've paced herself, because she's very much aware of her tendencies while under the influence. But right now, she can't really bring herself to care if it means being in his arms.

Milena sighs into her pillow, suddenly very _very_ tired. It's been a hell of a day.

"G'night," she says sleepily, and feels his warm exhale on her shoulder.

"Night," Bucky replies, pressing a kiss to her hair as an afterthought. He listens to her soft breathing for a while, letting his thumb brush against her stomach, over her shirt.

" _Si alleviare la mia mente_ ," he says quietly.

"I'm gunna make you tell me what that means tomorrow," she mutters. He smiles.

"If you remember."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> "Lo so." - "I know."  
> "Si alleviare la mia mente." - "You ease my mind."


	8. Piece for Peace

" _For once in my life, I won't let sorrow hurt me,  
Not like it's hurt me before_

_For once I have something I know won't desert me,  
I'm not alone anymore_ _,"_

— _Stevie Wonder, "For Once in My Life"_

**VIII:** _**Piece for Peace** _

Milena wakes slowly to relative darkness, her first thought being grateful there are no windows. She's warm all over but waking up feels like moving through molasses. A kiss presses against her shoulder.

" _Dobroe utro_ ," rumbles just under her ear pleasantly, but she groans and attempts to burrow deeper into the covers, hiding her face in the strong arm she has pinned under her cheek.

" _It is_ _ **not**_ ," she grumbles back sleepily in Russian, " _a good morning._ "

A metal hand brushes over her wild hair.

" _It is for me_ ," Bucky replies, with a hint of cheekiness in his tone that makes her smile despite the pounding ache in her head. Even through that, she senses his honesty.

"My head hurts."

"Not surprising."

She pinches the arm beneath her head and smiles at the noise of discomfort he makes.

"That couldn't possibly have hurt you."

"Doesn't mean I didn't feel it."

She feels his amusement and slowly turns in Bucky's arms so she can face his gentle smile.

"How long have you been awake?" she asks, raising a hand to his cheek.

"Few minutes."

"Liar," she teasingly accuses, earning a shrug from him. He'd only woken up once in an otherwise solid seven hours, _without_ disturbing her. He doesn't take that for granted, even if his eyes opened and refused to close again almost an hour ago. But Bucky thinks, if he tries, he could doze for a couple more.

"What time is it?" Milena asks.

He glances over her to the digital clock on the nightstand.

"Close to eight." She groans and slumps against his chest, muttering in Russian.

"You used to wake up earlier for work," he points out.

"Not with the mother of all hangovers." Her voice is muffled into his shirt. His fingers start to massage the back of her head gently.

"Go back to sleep then," he encourages. It's not like they have jobs or plans to keep anymore.

"Only if you come with me." Milena's arms sneak around his middle, and his metal hand finds her hip in response. A sudden thought makes Bucky pull down the covers just enough for him to lift up the hem of her shirt.

"What're you doing?" she asks in confusion. She was warm before he went and yanked the blankets off of her. But she quiets when she sees him looking at the small, but faint white lines that still mark her skin from the bullet she almost caught fully while escaping the Raft.

"That should be gone soon."

"Why isn't it gone already?" he asks, frowning while his fingers trace the lines delicately. His nerve endings can't pick up on the slightly raised ridges of skin through the metal, but he can feel the softness of her skin well enough.

"When a wound draws blood, the mark on the skin takes longer to fade entirely," she says. "But it doesn't hurt at all."

The pain of it stopped by the time they got off the Quinjet.

"Do your scars fade?" he asks, because his do. The minor ones anyway. But there's one or two from deeper knife injuries that have never gone away.

"Small ones do, so far," Milena says, like accidentally cutting herself while cooking, or she supposes being grazed by a bullet. She's never been injured enough to know what would put a permanent scar on her body.

But as much as she enjoys his hands on her, her head is pounding and she's notready for _anything_ except pulling the covers back over them and burrowing back into his warmth, which she does with a small, tired sigh. Bucky lets the back of his metallic fingers graze her arm. Eventually, he closes his eyes.

Hangover or no hangover, he can get used to mornings like this.

* * *

"What the hell is this?" Scott gripes at the bowl set in front of him. It looks like sludge, even though something smells suspiciously burnt. From the seat next to him at the bar, Steve eyes the bowl warily.

"It's fuckin' food. Eat it," Clint snaps. He didn't slave over a hot stove for half an hour to hear anyone's ungrateful whining. Especially with the stitches on his back—the ones he _can't fucking reach_ —itching like a mother in the kitchen's humidity.

Behind him, Sam sluggishly pours himself a cup of coffee and glances over Clint's shoulder.

"Man, no one's eatin' that."

"It's _fine_." Scott nearly gagged at the first tentative bite. Too runny, but definitely burnt. The question is _how_. _And where's the sugar?_

"Dude, it's _gray_ ," Sam says. "Didn't Wanda leave the recipe on the counter?"

"Yeah, I _followed_ it," Clint retorts.

"Prison food was better," Scott whispers to Steve. He pushes the bowl away from him, now a lot more nauseous than he was when he got up this morning.

"Who the hell messes up _oatmeal?_ " Sam says while adding sugar and milk into his coffee. Clint's eyes narrow at the other man with a precision of snark and annoyance that Steve has only seen Natasha get out of him.

"You want a gourmet breakfast, go to a fuckin' IHOP."

"Oh yeah, lemme just Google Maps that shit right now."

"It's too early for arguing," Steve sighs wearily into his own cup of coffee. It's almost ten, but he's never been a morning person. Bucky, on the other hand, used to get a good kick out of yanking the blankets off his bunk. One time _three hours_ before the wakeup call would've, and he nearly fell out of bed scrambling and thinking he was gunna be late.

Steve smiles at the memory though, and it makes him wonder where Bucky is (the man is usually up _too_ early). But that's for all of a few seconds before he remembers whose room Bucky most likely never left last night.

"I wanted oatmeal, damn it," Clint grumbles, but pours the contents of the pot into the sink and turns on the disposal afterwards, ridding them of it forever (if not the burnt smell).

"Why don't you wait until Wanda wakes up?" Steve suggests. Clint makes a dismissive noise with an equally flippant wave of his hand.

"Girl was knockin' 'em _back_ , first time in her life," Sam says, as probably the only one not feeling the effects of last night (who isn't a super-soldier). _He_ can hold his liquor. "Doubt she'll be up for _lunch_ , let alone breakfast."

"Yeah. Same goes for Mila, I think," Scott says, grinning slightly. Sam shakes his head and whistles lowly.

"Oh, yeah. She was _plastered_."

Clint gestures to said woman's room with a smirk.

"Tin Soldier in there had to carry her to bed, like some cheesy romance flick."

Steve's lips purse in annoyance as he shoots Clint a _look_.

" _Oh._ He's in there, huh?" Sam grins. "Damn, you granddads still got game."

Steve rolls his eyes.

"Nah, man. I'm right next door and I didn't hear any hanky panky goin' on," Clint shakes his head, but his smirk is still in place. "Doesn't mean the Boy Scout here didn't get some before Blondie left."

Steve freezes, his eyes popping open with a deer-in-headlights expression on his quickly reddening face. Sam comes around the counter to slap him on the back.

"Oh yeah? You and Sharon, huh?" Steve just buries his head in his hands. _No, no,_ _ **no**_ _._

"Oh God."

"I told ya, women like a man in uniform."

"But really, we needa get these rooms sound-proofed, because _Jesus_ ," Clint remarks, shuddering slightly. He had to slap a pillow over his head for hours. _Hours_. "They put Viagra in that stuff that juiced you up, didn't they? _Enhanced_ Viagra."

"Look, whatever we did or _didn't do_ —"

"Oh, you totally did, Captain ' _give me a break for ten minutes, holy crap_.'"

"Is _our business_ ," Steve continues, ineffectually as the bright blush extends to the tips of his ears. Sam just snorted hot coffee out his nose, and by now Scott is nearly doubled over holding in gut-bursting laughter at the man's expense.

Clint slaps a hand on his shoulder, and _winks_.

"But seriously. Congrats, man. 'God Bless America' is forever ruined for me."

Steve's shoulders slump. With a heavy sigh, he drops his head in his hand as embarrassment still burns his face.

"It's too early for this."

.

.

.

_**Two Weeks Later** _

He's seen a hell of a lot, but Steve doesn't think he's ever seen a view quite like this—birds gliding and landing on murky blue water and dense jungle as far as the eye can see.

He nudges the silent figure that appeared next to him a moment ago.

"Brooklyn's a long way away, huh?"

The other man huffs and stares at the enormous statue, seemingly guarding the palace from its place in the shadows of taller trees.

"So this is where you disappear to," he remarks.

It's obvious he's not the only one who's changed.

Steve's always been an internal guy, more inclined to let his actions do the talking unless he's issuing orders or getting answers. But Bucky notices how the man can't let his posture relax when he's around his team—or anyone else really. Spine straight, shoulders squared.

He confirmed it on the way up here, to the top floor, watching Steve standing there with a mile-long stare and his shoulders a bit slumped.

Steve shrugs, and they stay slumped. _Good_ , Bucky thinks. At least Steve still feels like he can be himself with him.

"Good place to think," Steve says. Bucky arches a brow.

"Since when do you do make a habit of that?" He earns a half-smile.

"I've been doin' a fair amount."

"Looks like," Bucky says, casually crossing his arms. Both go back to looking out at the expanse of wild country. "Thinking about…what you left behind?"

Steve looks over at him then.

"I don't regret it, if that's what you're asking," he says. He only regrets not being honest with Tony, but there's not much he can do about that now that he hasn't already done. His letter may or may not have made a difference.

"But yeah," Steve sighs. "Tony's under Ross's thumb now, and I don't like it. He's got Vision with him, but…"

"What about Romanoff?" Bucky asks, wanting him to keep talking.

"Natasha…I don't know," Steve admits. She might've signed the Accords, but there's no way she'd let the government lock her up for helping him and Bucky escape Berlin.

"Could've gone into hiding," Bucky offers.

"Probably," Steve nods. He isn't too concerned about Nat. She can take care of herself.

"Your SHIELD agent?" Bucky asks, grinning a little when Steve shoots him a sidelong glance.

"CIA," he corrects. "She's back in Berlin."

"Checking up on her?"

"It's all I can do." Steve smile falters, making Bucky's do the same. Though he has to admit he's curious about a couple things.

"How'd you two meet, anyway?"

Steve pauses, but the smile returns to his face.

"Well, for a while I thought she was Kate." At Bucky's questioning look, he adds, "She was posing as my neighbor back in DC. Fury assigned her to look out for me."

Bucky nods. _Somebody has to._

He's glad that his attempt on the former Director's life failed.

"Kinda resented her for that," Steve admits, but he remembers her firm response to his only half-teasing remark about it. She didn't apologize for doing her job, and he respects that. Respects her.

"I didn't know she was Peggy's niece until the funeral."

Bucky's heart grows heavy for his friend. The name triggers a face in his mind. A pretty face and a no-bullshit attitude that he remembers appreciating.

"I'm sorry," he says genuinely. "I remember…she was a good woman."

"She was…no matter how things ended up, she still saved people. Changed the world," Steve says. But his head hangs with the remnants of grief. "Sharon, she's…"

"She reminds you of her," Bucky muses. Steve lets out a long breath.

"She's strong, doesn't back down on what matters," he says. But there's a subtle softness to Sharon that Steve finds more readily than in the Peggy he knew. Part of that was probably the times—being in a war where her decisions, despite her authority, were always being second-guessed, just because she was a woman. There hadn't been much room for softness.

Except, maybe, from the first and last kiss he ever shared with her.

But does that make it wrong, him and Sharon? She said it had bothered her at first, being attracted to him when she _knew_ what Steve Rogers had meant to her aunt.

" _But I guess I like you too much to stay away," she says, her lips brushing just under his ear and her hands move over his chest, down his abs to his stomach. "Can we just…try this, for a night? See what you and me feels like?"_

_Steve smiles. He can't help it. He slides his hand behind her head and lets his fingers tangle in her soft hair._

" _I'd like that."_

Despite whatever Clint heard, they hadn't actually…well, they certainly did _things_ , but not… _everything_. But still…it was one of the better nights of his life, even if they skipped over quite a few steps he would've wanted to take if their situation was more…normal. Less eleventh hour. Maybe they'll never get that chance, but…

"Anyway," Steve shakes his head and raises a hand to the back of his neck when he feels a blush coming on. "No use thinkin' about that right now."

"Why not," Bucky retorts dryly. "We've finally got all the time in the world."

Steve sighs. _Ain't that the truth._

"I'm not gunna lie, I'm getting kinda stir crazy."

"About that…" Bucky stops himself. He feels Steve's eyes on him as he searches for the right words to say what he's been tossing around in his head for the past week or so. Eventually, he takes a breath and starts over.

"When you said I should try…doing something positive," he says, effectively snapping Steve out of his previous thoughts. "Something…constructive."

If he can find a way to do some good, _any_ good, maybe the weight on his chest will start to go away. Maybe someday he'll be able to look at himself and see a little more Bucky Barnes and less Winter Soldier.

"I want to start here," he says.

Steve somehow manages to repress how big he wants to smile, but when he does, it's still warm and genuine when he claps a hand on Bucky's shoulder.

"Okay," he says. "I'll talk to T'Challa, see what he—"

"No," Bucky says firmly. Steve is a little taken aback, until he sees the earnestness in his friend's eyes.

"I want to talk to him myself."

* * *

As Steve pushes a button on the elevator for their floor, something occurs to him.

"So…does this mean you're stickin' around?" he asks hopefully. Bucky raises a brow at him as the elevator doors close.

"What're you talking about?"

"You're not goin' under then," Steve tries to amend, but really it just gives away how much he doesn't want to say _cryostasis_.

"You mean am I not gunna go back on ice," Bucky flatly clarifies. Steve just tosses back a mildly annoyed look.

"I don't know yet," he says. "I guess…it's still an option."

Steve frowns. The elevator doors open once they get to their floor, and they get off, making their way down the hall to Unit 2. He attempts to tread lightly with his next question.

"Have you talked to Milena about it?" He expects the near-scowl Bucky gives him.

"Don't you think you should?" Steve asks, not unkindly. Bucky just sighs heavily, dragging his flesh hand through his hair as they stop in the middle of the hallway.

"I already know what she'd say," he says. "There's no point."

"If that's ultimately what you decide, you'll _have_ to tell her," Steve points out. "You don't think she'll ask how long it was in the works?"

Bucky truly scowls now. He shakes his head and starts walking on his own down the hall.

"Buck, come on," Steve starts to follow after him, but Bucky stops short and turns to face him.

"Don't talk to her about this. Don't even mention it," he warns.

"What're you afraid of?" Steve asks incredulously. "You obviously care about each other—"

"I _mean it_ , Steve."

Bucky's eyes are just as hard and piercing (and worried) as they had been before the fight in Berlin, practically begging Steve to let the doctor stay close to Bucky's side. That protectiveness Steve had known practically all his life—not just for him, but for whoever Buck saw that needed it—it was familiar, comforting to know that part of him was still in there.

"If she hears about it…I want it to be from me," Bucky says. His eyes are heavy and dark, and it makes Steve shove down a sigh.

"Okay, Buck."

* * *

From her spot at the dining table with her laptop, Milena sees Bucky and Steve coming around the corner and waves. Only Steve gives her a nod and something of a smile. Both of their emotions are a mixed bag, and from what she can pick out, nothing good. Her mouth quirking sideways in concern, she closes the laptop and gets up from her seat.

"Hey Steve," Clint calls from the living room. Scott is there too, shuffling a deck of cards. "You a bettin' man?"

"Can't say I am," the Captain says wryly, but he makes his way to the couch anyway. He scans the coffee table and takes in the set up of drinks and small stacks of cookies instead of plastic chips.

"But _everyone_ likes Oreos," Scott says sagely.

"Haven't played Poker in a while," Steve admits, but he smiles. "Texas Hold'em?"

"You got it," Clint nods.

Meanwhile, Milena looks up at Bucky's closed off expression with thinly veiled unease.

"Is something wrong?" she asks quietly. He doesn't look down at her.

"No."

She sighs through her nose, sending him a peeved look. "Really?"

He has the nerve to glance at her in annoyance.

"You _know_ I know you're lying, right?" she asks.

"Not now, Milena," he says tightly, and tries to walk away from her. Her lips flatten into a thin line while her brows furrow in concern. He hasn't called her _Milena_ in a long time. Whatever it is must be serious; she sees it in the tense set of his shoulders and his clenching fists.

But she follows him down the hall, far enough away from the others that she's sure they won't overhear them. With a gentle hand on his arm, she stops him.

"You seem upset," she says, calmly and non-accusatory as she would with one of her clients.

"I'm not."

Since he still hasn't turned around, she has to look up at the back of his head incredulously. It's one thing not to share the specifics of his more… _violent_ memories with her. It's something else, and _not like him_ , to openly hide something.

"Why are you lying to me?"

" _Stop_ trying to read me," he barks, surprising her even more.

"I'm _not_ trying."

But if there's something Milena has realized from her time with Bucky, it's both harder and easier to deal with these situations by using what she knows, considering he knows her as a _person_ and not just a prescription-filler (no matter how much she tried to avoid becoming that to her clients). But he's not her client.

"You know it's not something I can help," she tries to explain. But now they're both getting frustrated.

"Can you _not_ do this? For once?" Bucky's voice rises in anger, and she nearly matches him.

"What am I doing?" she asks, genuinely confused. "Something's obviously troubling you. I just want to _help_."

"Look. Just…" Bucky trails as his fists clench at his sides. "Don't worry about it."

"Why not?" she asks, her voice deceptively calm. Bucky can tell by the look on her face and the way she crosses her arms that she's going to be stubborn. But right now, this is the _last_ thing he needs.

" _Because it's none of your damn business!_ " he snaps in Russian. " _And I don't need your help._ "

He doesn't mean to shout, and he almost immediately regrets it when he sees her flinch. Then she looks up at him, stunned but still trying to mask the hurt from her features.

"Look, I…"

"Fine," she says tersely. "That's fine."

"Mila, wait…"

She cuts him off with an idle wave of her hand and leaves him in the middle of an otherwise empty hallway.

Shame squeezes around Bucky's heart even more when she distractedly rounds a corner and nearly smacks into Steve.

He steadies her startled frame and asks if she's okay, but she only shakes her head and brushes past him.

Steve watches her go in confusion, until he looks up at Bucky, sees the despair and frustration on his face and sighs through his nose. He goes to his best friend and lays a supportive hand on his shoulder. Bucky drops his head into his hands.

"I'm an idiot," he murmurs.

"You've got a lot on your mind," Steve corrects, squeezing his shoulder a bit before letting go. Bucky sighs and drops his hands.

"She didn't deserve that." Steve nods.

"So go apologize."

* * *

Bucky ignores the hawk-like eyes burning the back of his head when he breezes past the kitchen and living room. Instead he follows where his instinct leads him.

He lets out a quiet breath. Steels himself. Knocks lightly even though he knows she probably felt him coming before he even stopped at her door.

" _What?_ " Her voice is wary.

" _Can I come in?_ " he asks quietly in Russian. Hears her sigh.

" _Da, khorosho,_ " she replies. Bucky almost sighs in relief.

.

.

She doesn't know what her own face looks like (resigned, probably), but his is clearly miserable. It's hard to stay mad at a pitiful face like that.

He sits down tentatively across from her on the bed, and she can't help but smile slightly as he fidgets, as if waiting for her to push him away. _Deadly assassin, indeed._

"Oh, relax. I'm not that mad," she sighs heavily, crossing her arms. His surprise is obvious.

"But—"

"Bucky, I felt you're apology before you knocked on my door." Milena scoots closer to him, resting her hand over the clenched fist on his knee. "And your guilt. Just stop it already, I mean it."

Still frowning, he slips his hand out from under hers and hesitantly cups her cheek, his thumb brushing against her skin.

"I shouldn't have…"

"No," she agrees, "but I shouldn't have pried like that."

She should've known better than to be pushy when he's still under so much psychological stress. It's sometimes easy for her to forget his constant inner struggle when they've been able to spend the last couple of weeks so carelessly.

Bucky's hand falls back into his lap, but his mouth twitches at a smile when she laces her fingers with his.

"I…I know you can't always help your abilities," he says. "I'm…frustrated."

Milena nods in understanding. "I gathered," she smiles a little.

"There's something…I've been thinking about it for a while now. Since Berlin."

That piques her curiosity. And her worry when she feels his emotions more acutely through their joined hands.

"You don't have to tell me now," she says, despite herself. "I _want_ to know. Whatever this is, I can tell it's important. But if you need time, that's all right too."

"No," Bucky says. His eyes are sharp and determined boring into hers. "I need you to know."

He takes in a deep breath, and starts again.

"The programming they wired into me, into my mind—that's all still in there," he says, which is nothing she doesn't already know. "The scientists here, they don't know how long it'll take to get it out of me, or reverse it. Could be months. Or years. I don't know."

Bucky squeezes her fingers, hoping it'll stop his hands from shaking. He looks down so he doesn't have to see the brightness in her eyes dim further.

"Bottom line is, I can't trust myself," he says, shaking his head. "I'm surprised with as much Russian we..."

"So what are you saying?" Milena asks, though she has a sneaking suspicion she already knows. She sees it in his eyes when he finally looks back up at her.

"They can build a cryo chamber for me." His voice is quiet, but his words hit her in the gut like a freight train.

"It's an option," he says. "I haven't decided yet."

"Bucky," she says when she finally recovers. "You don't need to—"

"If someone finds me here, all it'll take is a few words," Bucky says bluntly. "If I killed someone else, or…or _hurt you_ —"

"I'm not afraid of you." She says that with all the conviction he sees in her eyes, but he still doesn't believe her. He knows she knows that too, by the way she frowns and grabs his hand more firmly.

"If I were ever to completely lose control," she says, bringing his hand to her cheek, "If my mind ever becomes compromised, I could scramble yours without meaning to. Does that make you scared of me?"

Bucky can't answer that, but both of them know he doesn't have to.

"I understand what you're saying. _Believe me_ , I do," she says. "But I'm here—"

"Because of me," he says, glaring down at his metal hand darkly.

"What?" she starts to say, surprised by his vehemence, but he cuts her off again.

"It's my fault they found you."

"Bucky—"

"No, Mila. You lost your job, your home," Bucky shakes his head. "You're a criminal because of me. I…I'll never forgive myself for that."

Her hands abruptly grab his face and tilt it up until he meets her eyes, blazing with disbelief and exasperation.

"That's it, you _listen to me._ Because I'm only saying this once," Milena snaps. His eyes go wide in surprise, and while part of her wants to smirk, most of her is too annoyed to care about anything else but setting him straight.

"I had to lie and steal my way out of Russia," she says. "I got my education and built my career under a _fake_ identity. I lived _alone_ , in a cramped apartment filled with things that, while important to me, were just _things_. They can be replaced. _You_ _ **cannot**_ _._ "

Milena pauses to gather her thoughts again, meanwhile pleased at how stunned the man in front of her looks. He's practically holding his breath waiting for her to say something else, and it makes her feel a little more confident.

"I do miss my old life. It was familiar and…mine. Though my only regret is not being able to say goodbye to the people I worked with, and Emil and Lina," she says. "Here with Steve, Wanda, Scott and Sam…even _Clint_."

Her smile is teasing, but it quickly turns genuine. "I can be myself…and I have you."

When Bucky's able to breath, it's a long, shuddering breath that he can't control. He pulls his arms away from his face so he can reach for her. Without the right words, all he can really do is bring her closer and kiss her more thoroughly than he ever has before. Milena willingly climbs into his lap, slides her arms around his neck while pressing more flush against him. He holds her to him with a desperation she senses, but isn't coherent enough to think about while trying to keep up with his mouth. Until suddenly, he's slowing down, eventually pulling their lips apart while looking down at her with heavy eyes.

"Someone will always be after me," Bucky says, his voice as solemn as the emotions she feels from him. "You won't be safe."

"I haven't truly been safe since I was eight years old," Milena says, her voice even softer than his. She lays a gentle hand on his cheek, liking the way his beard feels against her skin. "This… _hiding_ , it…it won't be forever."

His eyes darken.

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do."

"How?" he asks skeptically.

"One day…one day they'll see you as I see you. As Steve sees you."

"Yeah?" Bucky smiles deprecatingly. "As what?"

"A man that survived being stripped of his identity, his will," she says. "A good man, who wants to atone for things that were out of his control."

She uses her hand on his cheek to bring his eyes back to her when he tries to look away from her.

"Even if I could leave here, I really _couldn't_ ," she smiles. And with a hint of a blush knowing how strange it'll sound with her accent, she says, "You're getting to be a habit with me."

His surprise runs through both of them, but only stuns one of them. For the second time, Milena initiates the kiss, soft and slow, like this is all that matters. For her, this moment _is_ all that matters. After her eyes fall shut, she can't see how his brows furrow before his own eyes close, but she feels his hands grip her waist with _almost_ enough force to bruise. The small moan he makes when her fingers clench in his hair, nails lightly scraping his scalp, encourages her to be a little bolder. Her hands slide down his neck and shoulders, down to slip under his shirt and start exploring the toned muscle underneath.

Catching onto her, Bucky momentarily lets go of her to rid the shirt, tossing it to the floor. Her eyes follow her hands now, travelling over his sculpted torso and stopping at the scarring on his left shoulder, above the metal. He sees the sadness in her eyes that he's seen her wear before. And like every time before, he reaches for her cheek with his flesh hand, bringing her close again to kiss her deeply and distract her from whatever is it she's thinking.

She feels his hands drift down, thumbs teasing the sides of her breasts, then teasingly over the fabric of her shirt the way he knows makes her crazy.

And it does, frustrating her enough to start on the buttons herself ( _Why didn't I wear a T-shirt like a human being?_ ). But he quickly takes over for her and has the shirt off in less than a minute, revealing a black bra with lacey edges that she was able to pick for herself; T'Challa gave them each enough to spend on any other necessary clothes or products they would need while staying in the country. She's just glad she put on some of her newer stuff if the look in his eyes (or the swell of _appreciation_ she senses) is any indication of what he thinks.

It was like a flipped switch.

Bucky's mouth is hot against hers, and she finds herself being held close, his hands drifting under her jean-clad thighs that clench against his waist when he lifts her up and lays her back down more towards the center of the bed. She smiles up at him as her hands run down his bare chest, down his abs and stopping (a little nervously) at the waistband of his jeans. His eyes bore down into hers with silent question, but he asks anyway.

"Are you sure?" he asks, taking her hands in his. They haven't gotten that far yet, mostly because they'd agreed to take things relatively slow—hands over and under clothes, some close calls that could've leaded to more. But as much as Bucky's wanted to, he hasn't been able to bridge his fear of forgetting his own strength for even a second.

"We don't have to," he reminds her. "I don't want to hurt you if—"

"You won't hurt me. You won't," she promises with a sweet kiss as she unbuttons his jeans and helps him shimmy out of them. In return he helps her with hers, leaving him in his boxers and her in the black lace panties that match her bra, and his deft fingers (though hesitant at first) reach behind her to unclip that too while her hands slide up his strong arms. But Milena can't help but hold her breath and look away from his face when her bra joins the rest of their clothes on the floor.

She hadn't even realized she was biting her lip until his lips press against hers, his tongue soothing against her worried bottom lip.

"Why're you hiding if you're sure?" Bucky asks between kisses, and enjoys the way her breath hitches when he teases his thumbs over her breasts, starts kneading them gently, but firmly as his lips burn a trail from her mouth to her neck.

"No reason," she says, shivering slightly when his teeth graze her ear lobe. "I just remembered it's been…a long time."

"How long?" he asks curiously, but doesn't stop in his mouth's descent on her body. Her own hands are smooth along his arms, back and sides as her thigh slowly rubs against his, trying to find friction where she can.

"Long _enough_ ," she squeaks when his mouth and tongue find their way between her breasts, then take their time with each of them.

"You're beautiful," he says against her skin, smiling when she flushes brightly. But her warm smile nearly undoes him as she touches his cheek with a gentle hand and brings him up to her face to kiss him. Bucky eagerly deepens it, suddenly realizing just how long it's been for _him_ too ( _it's all coming back to him_ ). He decides in his mind that he'll go as slowly as he can, and carefully as his hands wander lower between them.

Even though her kindness, her _caring_ is something he doesn't feel like he deserves, he'll try his best to give her everything she does deserve.

He just doesn't count on her wanting to do the same for him, as many times as he does for her.

.

.

.

It seems that no matter what, he'll always wake up before her. But this time it's even more pleasant than usual, even if it's getting a little annoying.

"That tickles," she whines with a flinch at his feather light touches across her belly. Eyes still closed, Milena pushes his hand away with weak arms (her whole body feels like jello). Bucky just pulls her closer, dropping a kiss on her bare shoulder.

"We missed dinner," he informs her, but she hears the laziness in his voice and feels it in his lax limbs tangled with hers. She deduces that he cares about as much as her.

"I'm not bothered," she yawns. She could stay like this indefinitely.

Then a muffled growl pierces the quiet room, and she immediately feels his surprise fade to amusement.

_Okay, maybe not._

"Sure about that?" Bucky teases. His smile widens when he hears her faint mutterings in Russian, ending with, " _ten more minutes_."

"We _should_ get up," he muses. It's been a few hours, almost two of which they've spent dozing on and off. "We'll be up all night."

"Oh?" she says, smiling at him over her shoulder. "But, as long as we're up together…maybe we could pass the time somehow?"

"What'd you have in mind?" Bucky raises a brow, but his hands follow Milena's movements as she turns in his arms and starts tracing invisible patterns on his chest.

"We could play a game," she suggests innocently, but her idle tracing is starting to take a lower path. Both of Bucky's brows raise this time; she's been surprising him all afternoon with her playful boldness peeking out at the best times. It's both hot and incredibly endearing.

"What kind of game?" he can't help but ask. If he's stepping into a trap, he can at least say it's willingly.

She smiles.

"I guess we have all night to figure that out."

Perhaps _without_ denting the metal headboard even more severely than it already is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dobroe utro." - "Good morning."
> 
> "Da, khorosho." - "Yes, fine."


	9. Home Remedies

" _You're lying safe in bed_  
It was all a bad dream  
Spinning in your head  
Your mind tricked you to feel the pain  
Of someone close to you leaving the game of life  
So here it is, another chance  
Wide awake you face the day  
Your dream is over or has it just begun?"

— _Queensryche, "Silent Lucidity"_

**IX:** _**Home Remedies** _

"Are you even holding up your end, or am I doing all the work?" Sam grits out. His muscles are visibly straining under the weight of the large metal beam on his shoulder.

Bucky rolls his eyes and begrudgingly lifts his side of the beam higher, effortlessly with his bionic arm while Wanda quickly moves tools and debris out of their way. Red energy collects rocks and dust and shoves it all to the side, allowing the men to bring in the last support column they need for the hospital lobby.

"Thought you were busy helpin' Cap prep for the roof," Sam calls over his shoulder. Wanda stands in the doorway with her hands poised, a slight grin on her face.

"We finished." More red energy envelopes the beam and lifts it off the men's shoulders, depositing it firmly into a hole in the foundation.

"We could have the ceiling framing done by today," Bucky notes. Sam slaps him amiably in the back, earning a deadpan look.

"Dude, it ain't even lunch yet. We could have the roof up by five."

"Not if we don't want it to collapse during the next storm," Bucky says while arming an impact power drill. A Wakandan from T'Challa's construction team hands him a wide plastic box filled with different screws and bolts, and Bucky thanks him.

"We go slow enough, we make sure it's right the first time," he finishes.

"So, former assassin, _and_ construction expert?" Sam remarks, but also reaches for a drill and pretends to know what kind of drill bit goes into the front part. He's worked with power tools before, but his dad hadn't known the names of parts. Or at least, not much more than flathead screwdrivers and " _that there star-lookin' one_."

"Did you spend two years building apartments?" Wanda asks pointedly.

"Nah, but I helped my dad fix plenty of fences and my granddad's porch."

"I'd say this project's a little bigger than a porch," Steve says from the doorway. His shirt and jeans are nearly soaked through with sweat, but he smiles big at seeing their progress. Even without a roof or solid walls, the front and back doorways the safest entrances. They'll all be glad once the roof is up though, with the heat and humidity slowly baking them to a crisp.

"Wow, guys. Doin' good," Steve says honestly. They're ahead of schedule, even more than they figured with Wanda helping them do some of the heavy lifting.

"You done napping?" Bucky asks, smirking when the blonde tosses him an amused grin.

"You call cutting over fifty slabs of wood napping?"

"It is if it took you two hours to do it. Let's go, _super soldier_ ," Sam teases. Steve rolls his eyes and turns to Bucky, who's unofficially been considered task master of their group. But all of them defer to Kato, the Construction Manager and regarded highly by T'Challa as Wakanda's best constructionist, and one of his best engineers.

"What's next?" Steve asks.

"If you and Wanda could bring in those wooden beams, I'll check in with Kato about starting on the ceiling," Bucky says. It feels weird, giving people orders for once. It's especially weird telling _Steve_ what to do, since the man hardly ever used to do anything he said (even when he was small). Really, he has T'Challa to thank for a long list of unnecessary favors, most of which he can't repay. And the list just seems to just keep on growing.

.

.

" _I see," T'Challa nods. His smile seems pleased, but surprised._

" _Well, unfortunately there_ _ **is**_ _much work to do outside these palace walls," he says, briefly gesturing to said walls. "The main concern will be keeping your identity hidden."_

_The man remains in thought for a few moments, with his hand pressed to his chin. Until finally, his eyes light with realization._

" _There is a village, north of here. It is abandoned, driven out by those who sought to exploit the land's natural minerals and precious stones found in nearby mines."_

_Having Bucky's rapt attention, T'Challa continues._

" _They set fire to everything. Before the incident in Lagos, my father made sure the survivors were taken care of, accommodated in the nearest city. What was left of the mine is being protected," he says, more solemn with the mention of his late father. "Construction is currently taking place for my people to return to their homes, but your help would be appreciated. I could arrange for you to work only with a small team of my construction staff, for the sake of latency."_

_Bucky meets the man's dark eyes squarely._

" _When can I start?"_

.

.

Of course, when Steve heard the plan he immediately wanted to be a part of it. The prospect of getting outside and actually _helping_ people in whatever way he could was too tempting an offer. And that predictably led to Sam joining in, right before Wanda volunteered. Her abilities definitely made things run considerably easier, and by the end of nearly three weeks, they now have the foundation and the bare bones of the supports set for the entire building, not to mention several houses completely rebuilt.

Sunset marks the end of the day, and it comes right on time for them to finish the ceiling framing. On the ride back with Sam and Wanda bickering and Steve silently shaking with laughter at Bucky's side, Bucky considers the ache in his muscles and the fatigue in the rest of him a good feeling. It's brutal work in the heat that reminds him of all the time he spent working construction in Romania (and started in the dead of summer). That had just been a job. A means to eat and hide in a beautiful, but dangerous city. This is something else.

The satisfaction grows with every finished house, every time he imagines another family that will get to come back to their home that maybe isn't the same, but will be _there_ , waiting for them.

Bucky just doesn't have high hopes for the "appointment" waiting for him back in the palace.

* * *

The office is relatively small, but the large window in the back wall gives it a considerable view of the jungle surrounding the palace. If Bucky craned his head to the right, he could see the large statue from here.

Instead, he reluctantly sits down across from the casual, but neatly dressed man in front of him. Even while seated, Bucky can tell he's a short man, smiling and looking up at him through thick glasses as he sits relaxed against his leather chair. The elder Wakandan shifts, leaning forward slightly and folding his hands on the wooden desk. Bucky notes the thick band of silver on his left hand.

"Like I said, it is a pleasure to finally meet you." His voice, while a bit coarse, is as welcoming and seemingly genuine as it had been a few minutes ago outside the office. Dr. Tau Bahari had greeted both Steve and Milena with equal respect, even addressing the latter as a colleague rather than just Bucky's support. That had been enough for Bucky to keep his word, and enter the room alone.

"But, I must admit," the Wakandan strokes his chin. "I am curious as to why you are here."

_You're not the only one, pal_ , Bucky thinks, holding back a sigh.

"T'Challa told you I was coming." It's more of a question than a statement. Discomfort getting the best of him, Bucky shifts in his seat and discreetly stills his hands by gripping his thighs under the safety of the desk.

"My king spoke to me, yes. But I would like to hear it from you, if possible."

"You're not a psychiatrist," Bucky says, instead of answering. The other man inclines his head in acknowledgement.

"Not in the way Dr. Malikov is, no. But of my degrees, even a doctorate in behavioral science is not what qualifies me most to give you counsel."

That gets Bucky to look up from where he'd been staring down at the mahogany wood in front of him. There's a hard honesty in the older man's black eyes, in his presence, that puts Bucky a little more at ease.

"Before King T'Challa took up his father's mantle, I was one of few who advised T'Chaka, as counselor and friend." Buhari eyes become heavier, but his posture never weakens. "Many decades of mutual kinship forms a kind of trust, one that I have heard resembles your bond with Captain Rogers. Am I right to say so?"

Bucky blinks at the question, but eventually nods. Buhari smiles.

"I understand my king recommended you speak with someone about your troubles," he says, his head tilting with curiosity. "Why not utilize your partner's expertise?"

Bucky does sigh this time, running his hand through his long hair out of habit. That had been his first idea, but Mila had surprised him by suggesting, in her gentle way, against it. She used the analogy of why doctors shouldn't treat family members or people especially close to them, and while he didn't _like_ it, he saw her point.

"She…thought it would be better if I spoke to someone…objective," he says. Buhari smiles again.

"I believe that was wise of her," he says. "It can be hard to separate professional opinion from personal feelings."

"You were friends with T'Challa's father," Bucky points out. Buhari holds up a finger.

"Which is why I was not the only one to give my advice," he says, his expression nostalgic. "I didn't say it was not difficult, but I always did my best not to mince words."

Buhari watches Bucky look down at the desk again. His discomfort is clear as day, even if his emotions are expertly locked under a former assassin's blank look. From what Buhari's learned of the Winter Soldier program and of James Barnes, there is probably considerable trauma hidden under the blankness. _But, there is incredible strength there as well…and the capability for gentleness._

He saw it in the way Bucky held Dr. Malikov's hand, and watched her with amusement when she shook hands with Buhari, her smile bright and disarming. It reminded him of his late wife.

He saw it again with the brief, but meaningful grip Steve Rogers had on Bucky's shoulder before he left, tossing "Play nice" over his shoulder. Bucky's flat look in return was also fond, somehow.

"Do you believe you need rehabilitation?" Buhari asks. When the young man looks up, emotion bleeds into blue-gray eyes.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Bucky falters then. Despite how the thought of "therapy sessions" makes his skin crawl, he knows he needs this. But as honest as Buhari seems, Bucky just… _can't_ do this yet.

"I understand, my friend," Buhari says, surprising Bucky out of his thoughts. "It is hard enough to recall your past, and what you fear. Why should you bear your soul to me, as much a stranger to you as your surroundings?"

Buhari leans back in his chair, letting his hands fall onto the armrests.

"No. You do not have to speak with me," he says. "But from my own observations, it seems you have a deep respect for the ones who hold you in such high regard. Yes?"

Bucky nods.

"Good. That is something we have in common, then," Buhari smiles. His smile is the kind of smile that's just enough for the easygoing man, just enough to make the people around him relax.

"Would you like to know more about myself?" he asks. After a moment, Bucky nods and replies softly,

"Sure."

.

.

.

"You are so tense," she murmurs. Bucky hums distractedly in response. Not only is there a movie playing on her laptop in front of them, but Milena's hands on his neck and shoulders are working wonders on his still aching muscles. Luckily, his bed is wide enough for him to be half sprawled over her lap while she sits up against the headboard.

"It's been a long day," he says, his voice half muffled by her thigh. Milena shakes her head and pulls another pillow behind her back; it was starting to hurt against the metal, but she'd rather just stuff a bunch of pillows back there instead of making Bucky move. Despite his tenseness, he really does seem relaxed. Even his emotions are calm and content.

"So, you and Dr. Buhari had a good talk then?" Bucky hesitates briefly before shrugging.

"Guess so."

The corner of her mouth pulls upwards, but she doesn't stop her careful massaging at the pressure points in his back and shoulders.

"You _guess so_ , huh?"

"He just…told me a bunch of stuff," Bucky says. "About himself. He uh…understood that it's hard for me to talk about things. Especially because we don't know each other too well yet."

"I knew I liked him," Milena muses. She smiles genuinely as she applies pressure up the back of his neck and runs her fingers through his hair. Bucky shivers a little at the sensation, unable to suppress a low moan that she feels against her thigh. He can't even pretend to be paying attention to the movie now.

"I'm proud of you, you know," she says, continuing to card through the impossibly soft strands of dark brown hair. She's kind of jealous, if she's honest with herself. He hasn't had a haircut in months but it's is so thick, not to mention shiny now that it's washed and air-dried.

_He barely even has any split ends!_ she thinks.

"For what?" Bucky asks, bringing her back to the conversation. _What was I saying? Oh yes, proud. Very proud._

"The work you're doing…I can tell it means something to you," Milena says. "And it'll give so many people back their lives…but, I may have to start charging you for these massages."

Bucky snorts a bit. "Oh yeah? By the hour?"

"Per half hour, actually. Hard cash only." She's almost grateful that he can't see her cheeky smile. He'll want to retaliate when he's not a boneless puddle in her arms.

"Sure you only take cash?" he asks innocently, but she feels his smirk against her leg.

"Unless you have something better to offer," she suggests, shrugging mildly. Bucky chuckles deeply, making her skin nearly vibrate under his head. His metal hand reaches out and pauses the movie.

"We'll finish it later," he tells her, after looking up and seeing the question in her (amused) eyes. She giggles when he reaches for her face and kisses her, chastely at first, but her wandering hands push him to deepen it. His metal fingers tangle in her hair and pull her closer while his other hand disappears under her shirt.

"You've been working all day," she pants between kisses, her brown eyes teasing. "Sure you have enough energy?"

Bucky notices that she doesn't stop running her hands all over his body and lighting a fire wherever she touches. Yeah, he's tired, but suddenly his exhaustion is far away and all he wants to do is figure out how to repay his girl for the most amazing massage he can remember.

"We'll find out."

* * *

An hour later, sleep hits him like a freight train. Ironically enough, that's what he dreams of.

_Trains and snow, and a long way down that seems to take forever and no time at all. Even in a dream, the landing is hazy. What isn't is the uniformed men that drag his limp body through the freezing snow and haul him onto a stretcher._ _The halls blur past, fading in and out so many times that he doesn't realize he's in a room surrounded by lab coats and stoic faces until there's a scalpel cutting into mutilated flesh. He's already screaming by the time metal reaches bone, but agony shoots up his nerves into his neck so painfully that it chokes the air out of his lungs—_

"—ky, wake up, please… _Bucky!_ "

He recognizes her touch before her voice, feels calm rushing to his head and following to his limbs, and his vision finally focuses on her face. She looks worried, but unafraid even with his tense grip on her waist. Her hands are at his temples, soft like her glowing eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispers shakily. Milena shakes her head, but manages a weak smile.

" _Don't apologize_ ," she says, wiping the sweat from his brow. He leans into her touch and lets her soothing voice wash over him. He loves the way Russian flows off her tongue, more than her Romanian. He thinks her accented English is charming. But while Russian in his past has been caustic and harsh—commands that chipped away parts of his soul, she makes it beautiful somehow.

" _Let me help you_ ," she offers. Bucky shakes his head.

" _I don't want you to see it._ "

" _You need to rest_ ," Milena says stubbornly. " _Odds are, whatever it is I've seen it before._ "

Bucky sighs heavily, but sheer exhausting makes him relent. He closes his eyes and lets her dull the intense memories swirling at the forefront of his mind before she pulls him back down to the bed. She fixes the sheets around them, grabs the pillows that fell onto the floor, and wraps her arms around his shoulders.

"I don't care about being woken up. If you need me, I'm here," she tells him, stroking his cheek. He presses a kiss to her shoulder, then her lips.

" _Thank you._ "

"You don't need to thank me either."

"Yeah, I do."

What he really needs to do is stop this. Bucky knows he deserves restless nights for the rest of his life, but he can't keep bringing her down with him either. He still has reservations about going through with biweekly sessions with Buhari, but Bucky doesn't see any alternative.

He'll have to go to fucking therapy.

* * *

A few days later, Milena finds herself in a predictable place at the kitchen's bar seating, nursing a rum and coke.

"Look, I can't tell you what to do. Why're you talkin' to me about it?"

"I'm not asking you to. I'm just…venting."

"You think _you_ feel useless? They've still got me pussy-footing around here when I could be out there with everybody else, fightin' tigers and shit."

"Tigers live in Asia," Milena flatly points out. Clint just points at her with a greasy spatula.

"Can't say I give a shit," he says. "Point is, I could be out there building houses. Instead they've got me doing bullshit crunches."

"Physical therapy is important—" she starts to say, but he cuts her off with an idle wave of his hand while he flips a burger on the stove.

"Clint, two inches to the right and you wouldn't have a stomach," she says. "You would've died of hemorrhaging."

He gives her a deadpan look. When he worked for SHIELD, he would've walked this off in two weeks, _tops_.

"I'm used to it."

Milena sighs, rubbing her face.

"Why do I even talk to you?"

"I'm the only one here, you've got no choice."

"Where the hell is Scott?" she asks.

"He's consulting on some secret engineering thing for Cat Man downstairs, somewhere." Milena shoots him a chiding look.

"You really could show some more respect. The man saved our lives."

"Technically that was Cap, but I get your point." Clint rolls his eyes at her unimpressed expression.

"What, you're acting like I'll let it slip to his face."

"No, I suppose a master assassin has better tact than that," she sighs dryly.

"Look, it's obvious you're feeling lonely with the Tin Soldier gone all day," Clint says. Flipping the burgers for the last time, he crosses the kitchen in search of plates. "Pick a hobby. Any hobby."

"It's not just him being gone, it's everyone," Milena blushes a little. "But I don't want or need another excuse to sit on my ass. I've read almost twenty books since we've been here, and I've spent hours watching nearly every classic movie from the past three decades."

Really, she doesn't want to complain about being _lonely_ ,of all the stupid things. She doesn't have a right to. Clint and Scott have it so much worse than her, not even being able to see their families at all.

And she would never mention it to Bucky. He's been working so hard because it's something he _wants_ to do, and she can see how working with his hands and doing something good is slowly lightening the weight on his shoulders; he smiles more, even laughs more and jokes with Steve, and trades barbs with Sam more readily than before. It's a good start, she thinks.

"So what the hell do you want?" Clint asks. He shovels a patty onto a bun and drops a slice of cheese on it, followed by lettuce, pickles, ketchup, and mustard.

"I want to work again," she admits, and looks down at the plate he sets in front of her with interest. It looks much better than the breakfast he tried to serve a few weeks ago, and with her, Wanda and Sam giving him tips, he's become marginally better at cooking. Milena suspects his wife did most of the cooking while he was at home.

"Good. Do that," he says around a thick bite of burger.

"It's not that simple," she says. "Legally, I'm not even certified under my real name—"

"Legally, we shouldn't even be here," Clint says. Milena nods at that.

"Good point."

"You really want to go for this, talk to T'Challa. He'll find somewhere for you to work."

* * *

So she requests a meeting with him for tomorrow. Until then, she'll be in the royal library brushing up on her more general medical training with any textbooks she can get her hands on. The library is extensive, to say the least. With three floors of books in several languages and genres, finding what she needs might be like looking for a needle in a haystack. But the one thing she has is _time_ , and the place is virtually empty.

She did bring her laptop, but since they're meant to be hiding, she can't just access her old college library with her login. That would tip off anyone waiting for one of them to use their credentials online somewhere. But she can do things the old fashioned way—tearing through the sections of books printed in English and Russian for anything helpful.

A few hours later and she's still elbow-deep in medical texts she found in the original Russian, one of which she used in school as an outside reference for her dissertation.

"You seem busy," comes a coarse voice from her right. Milena jumps in her seat, startled until she sees the somewhat familiar face smiling apologetically.

"Hello, Dr. Buhari," she greets, and starts to get up so she can shake his hand. He raises placating hands and bids her to sit back down.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he says. He gestures to the collection of books around her at the small study table. "Research?"

"I'm…brushing up," she admits. "I'd like to go back to work. If not in my field, then something close to it. Maybe King T'Challa could hire me as an assistant for his medical staff."

"Has it been that long since you attended medical school?"

"Unfortunately, yes," she says. "But while I have a good memory, I like to be prepared."

"I understand," Buhari says, and sets a hand down on a nearby chair. "May I?"

"O-Oh yes," Milena nods. She watches him take a seat next to her and can't help but be curious as to why he was here. But there's something else that she's even more curious about, even though she knows she probably shouldn't ask.

"So," she says, inwardly cringing at her own awkwardness. Buhari only smiles at her.

"James is doing well," he says. "There is still the matter of trust that needs to be bridged, but I have only ever been honest in my observations and forthcoming with any questions he asks."

Milena breathes a relieved sigh that ends in a small smile.

"That's good. I'm glad…he had positive things to say about you," she says.

"And he of you," Buhari smiles. "He seems to admire you greatly."

Milena can't help the blush that stains her cheeks and the involuntary smile that tugs at her mouth.

"However," he says, the smile fading from his face, "may I ask a question?"

She nods, but her brows furrow at the change in tone.

"Why is it that you speak with him in the language of his captors?" Buhari's expression is earnest while Milena's eyes widen in surprise.

"Surely as a psychologist, you see the danger in this."

Too stunned to speak for a moment, Milena closes the book she was reading and turns to face the older man fully.

"I was born in Moscow. It's my first language," she starts slowly. "But in the beginning, when I first met him, he expressed himself more easily in Russian. It wasn't until later that he connected to American music and movies in English."

"After that, did you make an effort to speak with him in English?"

"Of course," she says, but she has to do her best to shove down her irritation.

"I don't mean to offend you. And I realize this is rather forward, considering none of us know each other very well yet," Buhari says. "But I believe it is for the sake of his health, as well as his safety that you don't encourage him further in the language. As you know, HYDRA has implemented verbal codes, only one of which that we know of."

"Are you accusing me of hindering him?" Milena asks incredulously. Buhari sighs and folds his hands on the table.

"I will say that his brain still associates certain words with his programming," he says. "Who is to say that that aspect of his captivity wouldn't cause trauma in other ways?"

"Is this all you wanted to discuss?" Milena asks tersely. Her lips are pressed in a thin line with all the things she wants to say but won't let herself. She watches Buhari sigh again, and lean back in his seat.

"There is one other thing."

.

.

.

Even with his ear buds in, Clint hears the gym door burst open and whips his head over. He can't help but stare as Milena speed-walks over to the nearest punching bag. She glares at it for a while, but finally she punches it, testing her own strength maybe. She lands another one, a little harder, but he can tell she doesn't really know how to punch and she hasn't taped up her hands.

"Milena?" She doesn't answer him.

By the time he gets to her, she's punching the thing repeatedly with angry huffs between each one, and nothing he says stops her. Finally he has to forcibly grab her around the waist and pull her away before she really hurts herself.

"What the hell're you doing?" he exclaims. Once he gets a good grip on her shoulders and turns her around to face him, he deflates at the sight of her teary eyes and wobbling lower lip.

"Can you teach me how to use the punching bag?"


	10. Lies by Omission I

" _And I can't help but wonder out loud  
If only we could go back to square one,  
If finally we could pinpoint where we lost touch;  
I stand alone, reaching out my hand to you_ _,"_

— _Survivor, "Oceans"_

**X:** _**Lies by Omission, Part I** _

Clint doesn't ask the obvious question. He tweaks Milena's stance by nudging her feet apart, explains how she should distribute her weight and how to position her arms, and how to make a fist.

"First off, no," he says. "That's a sure way to break a finger."

She sniffles every now and then, but listens to him intently and executes his instructions with careful movements. By the time she tries out punching his hands, she's stopped crying and completely focused on the impromptu boxing lesson.

"Before you try it on the bag, put on some gloves. You'll wreck your shit doing what you were doing."

There's a rack of them near the free weights, so he finds a small enough pair that'll fit her and helps her strap them on correctly, then directs her in how to use the punching bag.

"If the joints in your arms or shoulders hurt after a few swings, you're doing it wrong," Clint says, delivers a few quick jabs to demonstrate. "Do it just like that, but slower. Do this enough times and maybe those noodle arms will be good for somethin'."

Milena gives him a sidelong look, but the tease has its intended effect and gets a small smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

He supervises her while continuing his own strength conditioning, barking out corrections and tips every so often. It reminds him of his SHIELD days, when he and Nat used to train new recruits when they weren't in the field. They were only every given the top scorers, the best of the batch, and that's what he liked about it. They were raw, but they were the ones with the most potential. He saw a lot of that in Wanda when he first met her, and even more now that Steve and Natasha had spent a couple years training her and helping her focus her body and mind.

He can't say that Milena needs all that, but if she's gunna be hanging around with a bunch of (extremely wanted) Avengers and dating the Winter Soldier (also extremely wanted), Clint figures learning how to punch is a good start. With all of them combined, Clint doesn't even want to hazard a guess as to how long their laundry list of enemies goes.

"Why don't you pick up some weights? Nothing crazy. Five pounds to start," he suggests after he notices Milena leaning heavily against the punching bag and panting for air. She peels the gloves off her hands and tosses them to the floor. But when she plops down onto the mats next to him and drops her sweaty head into her hands, Clint gets a hunch that the waterworks are about to start again.

"Okay." Clint nods and pauses from his crunches, sets his own weights down next to him and sits up. "We're gettin' to it now, huh?"

She shakes her head, tucks her knees up to her chest and holds onto her legs with shaky, fatigued arms.

"I just…I can't do anything right." After a few seconds of waiting for her to continue, Clint looks over at her with expectant eyebrows. Her gaze is pinned to the floor.

"So," he starts casually, "what started the pity party?"

With an exasperated huff, Milena shoves his arm and snaps, "Are you _incapable_ of sensitivity, or is it just a personal preference?"

He laughs and holds up his hands in surrender.

"All right, go on. What was so bad you came in here and nearly took my head off?"

She sighs and crosses her legs on the mat, leaning her elbows on her thighs. Staring at the far wall is easier than looking at Clint, whose eyes are too sharp and too focused on her. It makes her nervous to open up, especially about the things she's thinking of now. Things that she has spent most of her life shoving down, so she never has to pull it out and look at it again. Most of those things she's only told Bucky.

But if Milena doesn't talk now, she has a feeling she never will. Or at least, not any time soon.

"I think it'll make more sense if I tell you something else first," she says eventually. Clint sighs heavily, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

"Go ahead."

It takes another minute for her to collect herself, but eventually she gets there after sucking in a calming breath.

"I don't really remember my mother that well. She died when I was young," she starts. "But one winter, I was about six or seven. I remember she took one of my blankets that I barely ever used, only if I wanted to feel extra warm. But our neighbor was an older woman who lost her husband and son in the Cold War, and her health was failing. My mother gave her that blanket with some soup and tea."

_._

_._

" _Why do you bother with the old cow?" Malikov scoops a helping of stew into his mouth. "In this cold, she'll not be long after her husband."_

_The young woman bristles with disgust while she fills Milena's glass with water._

" _That's why I did it," she says quietly. But there's a subtle, defiant tilt to her chin that makes Malikov's lips purse._

" _I can't afford to be the town's soup kitchen," he says tersely. "Don't get into the habit of it."_

" _You were not always so callous," she remarks, brushing strands of hair from her daughter's face. She's a smart girl, and knows when to keep her eyes down at her meal when her parents talk at the dining table. It's one of the few instances that it happens._

" _People are like animals, Lesya. Even if they have holes to crawl into at night, some still act like strays," Malikov says with an idle wave of his hand, but his eyes warn her against contradicting him, especially with the child in the room. So she says nothing, and doesn't even bother to glance in his direction._

_The rest of the meal is had in silence, until the man pushes away from the table—his chair creaking loudly—and he disappears into the study with a mug of coffee. The door closes and clicks behind him. His wife is glad for it; better he do whatever corrupt "government work" he does in that cave he calls an office._

_Milena waits about a second before looking up at her mother, confusion in her eyes._

" _Is baba Rada sick?" she asks._

" _She is old. The winter is always hard for her," Lesya says._ _"Lonely, too."_

" _Is that why you took my blanket?" Milena asks a bit sourly, her small face scrunching. Lesya smiles and pushes the little girl's bangs out of her eyes._

" _It's important to give to those who need help," she says. Milena frowns in confusion._

" _That's not what Papa says."_

" _What have I told you about what your father says?"_

" _Not to listen, except when he tells me to do something."_

_Lesya strokes the girl's cheek affectionately._

" _Everyone matters, Lena."_

" _Even bad people?"_

" _Bad people don't start out that way," she sighs heavily. "But the bad decisions they make change them inside. Even if you shouldn't trust them, they're still people…some of them are, anyway."_

" _Even Papa?"_

"… _Yes, even him."_

.

.

"I tried to be a good daughter. I did what he told me to," Milena says. "But that was wrong. My father was a monster."

She doesn't miss him, and she doesn't regret that he's gone. But she does regret _how_ he met his end.

"When I could, I ran away," she says, feeling the burn behind her eyes again. "Then I let someone falsify papers for me, so I could forget all of the people who died so I could have a life."

"Sounds like you were dealt a shitty hand," Clint sighs, and scrubs at his face. "You can beat yourself up however much you want, but it's not gunna change what happened, or how it happened."

"I know that," Milena says, slumping pitifully.

"Do you?" Clint asks pointedly. But he feels bad enough for her that he shakes his head at himself and rubs the back of his neck. "Look kid, everyone makes shitty decisions and tries to excuse themselves with good intentions. Maybe you were scared and selfish along the way. Fine. But you wanted to become a doctor, right? That's why you went to school?"

"…Yes," she answers eventually. "I didn't know what kind, but I liked psychology best."

"And why did you do it?"

"I wanted to do something good."

"Why?" he presses.

Milena sighs. She loved her job. She worked most often with people with depression and anxiety disorders, and found it easiest to relate to them, even if she couldn't exactly share her experiences in depth. Just to have someone who seemed to understand where you were coming from, she thinks, made a difference.

"So many people are lost in their own heads, or just lost, like I was," she says. "I just wanted to help them understand themselves better, and not feel like they're alone."

After a moment, Clint nods.

"Sounds like a good motivation to me."

They sit in relative silence for a while, side by side while a few of the Wakandan staff use their breaks to run on the treadmill or ride the stationary bikes. It's when the silence starts to get uncomfortable for Milena that Clint finally asks the question she thought she'd successfully avoided.

"So what happened to make _this_ can a' worms open up?"

.

.

.

"Self-defense lessons?" Bucky asks around a mouthful of chicken and mashed potatoes.

" _Yes_." She looks at him curiously. "Why do you sound so surprised?"

"Well…you sense people coming before you see them."

"Okay, yes. But—"

"You can neutralize a threat before it touches you," he says. "That's a pretty good defense."

The others eating at the table shoot glances their way, but keep their "attention" to their own food and smaller conversations. Even Steve keeps to himself on this one, but he's not fooling anyone with his shifty eyes.

Milena puts down her fork and tilts her head at the man sitting across from her.

"Somehow I thought you'd be more enthusiastic about this," she says. For a _war veteran_ and former assassin, she thought he'd want to teach her himself. "I don't mean _training_. Just some basic moves to shake someone off."

Bucky just stares at her, but she feels his conflicted emotions churning underneath. _But why_ , she wonders. _It's not that big a deal._

"Look, she didn't even know how to throw a decent punch until today," Clint speaks up from her right. "With the amount of shit we attract, it's _probably_ a good idea."

Bucky only glances at Clint before his eyes meet hers again.

" _Could we talk about this later?_ " he asks, purposefully in Russian. Milena blinks.

"Why? We're talking now." His brows furrow.

" _In private._ "

" _Why do we need to talk in private? It's a simple thing._ "

Bucky is visibly thrown off then, and she bites her lip in a nervous habit.

" _Why did you just…answer me in Romanian?_ " he asks in confusion, but he switches as well.

" _I don't know. It just came out._ "

" _What do you mean?_ "

" _What—_ "

"Uh…hey, lovebirds," Scott cuts in from next to Clint, waving his fork. "We're all still here. But I mean, we can all clear out if you need."

Both turn their heads and give him similar looks, and he withers a little at realizing that it's the _Winter Soldier_ giving him a death glare. He could literally die in a multitude of ways right now, just with that fork clutched in the guy's metal hand.

"Uh, never mind. That was… _stupid_ of me. Please continue in whatever language that was…uh, happening in."

Steve wants to cover his face with his hands. He can't actually remember the last time he had second-hand embarrassment for someone, but he buries it down and drinks his soda while discreetly watching out for Bucky. He looks uncomfortable.

Milena shakes her head with a huff of a breath, but her eyes flick to Bucky's awkwardly. He avoids it by picking at the chicken on his plate.

After a moment of extended, painful silence, Sam sighs heavily.

"Yo, Tic Tac. Pass me the mashed potatoes before you eat that foot you've got shoved up your mouth."

* * *

"He's got this big room with all kinds of tech," Scott explains while he washes dishes and Milena dries. Clint and Wanda sit at the bar, one with a scotch on the rocks (now that he's cleared) and one with a book.

"Something about the supercomputers intermittently shorting out the circuit boards, and if there was anything they could do to correct the power balancing problem."

"Doesn't he have people to figure that out for him?" Clint asks.

"Well, I ended up having to use the suit to jump in between the panels and alter some wiring lines…I'd explain but—"

"It's fine. You _really_ don't have to."

Scott shoots Clint a bland look and contemplates dropping the plates into the sink hard enough splash soapy water in the archer's direction. But with Scott's luck, he'd just get himself drenched. Or worse, he'd manage to get dirty dish water on Milena or Wanda. Both can feasibly make his life miserable without lifting a finger.

"After that he wanted me to look at some new tech they're developing…up close."

"You're good at building things?" Milena asks, drying and shelving the last of the silverware.

"I'm no Stark, but I like tinkering," Scott shrugs. "Got to play with some cool toys, not gunna lie."

"What kinda toys?" Clint asks. His eyes are glinting with thinly veiled curiosity at the prospect of new weaponry. He doesn't know a whole lot about this country yet, but getting a look at the royal armory would be interesting.

Scott gives a half-apologetic look before handing off the last clean plate to Milena.

"Wish I could tell ya. They're real hush, hush about that stuff. Made me sign a form and everything."

"What is it with you boys and your guns and machinery?" Wanda asks. For the first time in a while, her gray eyes glance up from her book.

"We like shiny things," Scott grins. Her brow arches, and Milena senses her amusement.

"Not all of us have magic powers to fight the bad guys," Clint teases. Wanda subtly rolls her eyes at him. She doesn't see the allure in guns or knives, or any weapon really. Natasha made sure she knew how to shoot a gun just to cover the bases of training, but Wanda has no intention of ever shooting one if she can help it.

"You don't use guns, Clint," Milena points out.

"I'm a master marksman. There are few weapons I haven't handled, or mastered." He doesn't say that in a prideful way, just factual. Milena believes him.

She's never even held a gun before. The closest she's ever gotten to a weapon is her kitchen knives, but she used to catch Bucky twirling them enough to know that he's very comfortable with weapons. She saw the footage from the bridge in D.C., too.

She chances a glance over at the living room and only sees the back of his head; him, Steve, and Sam are watching some action movie with fighting robots that change into cars and planes and things (she likes action films, but those kinds aren't her favorite).

Milena can't move things with her mind, or even half of what Wanda can do. Hell, she doesn't even have a quarter of Bucky's strength or agility or speed; in a lot of ways, the serum her father made was a watered down and altered version of the Winter Soldier serum, with several chemicals added in that cancelled out some of those enhancements, in favor of others. If he was right about being hunted, then just knowing how to sucker punch isn't going to be enough.

She knows what she told Bucky, but maybe she should think a little harder about what she could learn from having _Hawkeye_ as a teacher.

.

.

.

Two days is _not_ enough time for her stamina to have improved any. She doesn't care _what_ Clint says.

"You know, you're a bit ambitious for someone who can't do ten pushups," Clint remarks. "No one's puttin' pressure on you to do this but you, you know."

"Look." She sets her hands on her hips and leans back from her "ready" stance. "This isn't just some exercise in self-confidence or whatever. In the long run, this will give _him_ peace of mind too."

"He doesn't even know you wanna do this, does he?" Clint asks knowingly. Milena sighs, making the archer roll his eyes.

She and Bucky hadn't _specifically_ talked about it, but that night she apologized for acting the way she did at dinner, and Bucky apologized for how he'd reacted. And yes, he thought her learning some new things to protect herself was a good idea. He just didn't want her to get hurt in the process, but she promised him that she'd be careful.

"I'm starting to get why he's so moody."

"He is _not_ —"

"Is this how a shrink deals with problems?" Clint gestures at her. "You've got enough to hash out with this guy as it is, and you're gunna add 'secret combat training' to the list?"

What almost makes him laugh is how she thinks she'll be able to keep secrets from someone like Barnes, when she can't even lie with a straight face about how the last few chocolate chip cookies Sam made went "missing."

"He already thinks you're teaching me how to karate-chop assailants in the throat and run away," Milena throws her hands up flippantly. "Might as well add knife wielding and gun shooting."

"Whoa, whoa. Slow you're roll," Clint says, holding up a hand. "We've got a lot of work to do before you get even close to a weapon."

"Great," she says gamely (even though her arms and nonexistent abs protest).

"What's first?"

* * *

_Literally the worst idea you've ever had_ , she thinks to herself when she's finally out of the shower and only half-dressed in front of the mirror. The bright overhead lights in the bathroom make her wet, stringy hair and the large bruise on her sternum look _fantastic_. But that doesn't bother her as much as the fatigue in every non-athletic muscle in her body.

_I'm starting to think I wasn't meant for any physical activity that requires heavy machinery, mats, or boxing gloves_ , she thinks sourly.

Milena huffs and lets the blue oversized dress shirt fall in favor of grabbing her comb. She found that particular article of clothing hanging on the towel rack. No surprise there. She's notorious for leaving things hanging off chairs and doorknobs…any available corner really. It's convenient, and it sometimes drives Bucky a little crazy (his things are almost _always_ in order). She threw on the shirt because she hasn't done her laundry in a week. It hangs down to her thighs, which tells her it's one of the ones she "borrowed."

"Isn't this mine?"

Milena shrieks as her comb flies out of her hands to clatter in the sink. She whirls around and her wet hair whips against a broad chest. But when familiar hands sooth down her sides, she sighs in exasperation while Bucky laughs—a full-throated laugh that almost has Milena melting at how bright his smile is. _Well_ _ **someone's**_ _in a good mood._

"Why do you _do_ that?" she whines. When he really tries (and when he's feeling particularly playful), he can and will use his sneaky stealthy-ness to scare the shit out of her.

She grabs onto Bucky's grimy arms anyway. He smells like sawdust and dried sweat, and she can see his shirt is still damp with it even after the long car ride back to the palace.

"Teaches you not to be so distracted," he smirks, greeting her with a languid kiss that she pulls away from before it can make her too much weaker at the knees. He really does smell.

"I get enough of that from Clint," she says dryly. Turning in his arms, she reaches for her discarded comb and finishes getting out the tangles from her dark hair. Distracting her, however, are the hands palming down her body and under the shirt, not to mention the scruff scratching her shoulder deliciously after one of her sleeves is tugged down.

"Was it a good day today?" she asks knowingly.

"We finished the roof on the hospital. The school is next." His lips move against her skin, making her shiver involuntarily. He smiles and sweeps her newly combed, wet hair to the side, and his lips move to the sensitive spot on her neck that makes her turn to mush inside.

"That's great," Milena breathes, biting her lip when his hair starts tickling her ear. She watches him through the mirror and grins. "Why don't you celebrate with a shower?"

"I'm not that bad," he chuckles, and glances at them in the mirror. First at her—soft brown eyes watching him take her in—then at himself. His hair and clothes are a mess, and he thinks not in a good way, like hers. Not for the first time, he eyes the facial hair he's been sporting for roughly seven decades, shaving just enough to keep from looking like his old self. His hair could use a trim, too. It's brushing his shoulders again.

He looks too much like the Soldier. All that's missing is his old suit.

"I should shave," Bucky muses. He doesn't entirely realize he's said that out loud until he sees Milena's gaze turn questioning.

"You do shave," she says.

"I mean…more."

"Like, the whole thing?" He nods, making her tilt her head thoughtfully.

"I've never seen you clean-shaven. I mean, I've seen the old pictures, but…" She smiles. "You'll look handsome either way, I think."

Bucky's brows raise in mild surprise. His mouth tugs upwards.

"Really?" he states more than asks. It has Milena smiling more.

"You really did have that charming soldier look down, but I…don't mind the scruff. I actually kind of like it." There's a blush at the end of that that piques Bucky's curiosity. Because when she says _kind of_ , she usually means _a lot_.

"Oh yeah?" His hands find her hips again. "Why?"

He meets her eyes in the mirror head on with his own until she finds her voice and raises her hand to his cheek.

"It really is handsome. And feels nice," she admits, flushing a brighter shade of red as his beard prickles against her hand, "…in places."

Bucky smirks and kisses her palm. "Good to know."

His hands move of their own free will, but they both tense when his fingers tease over ribs, and she winces. It's obviously pain, not pleasure.

"Don't worry about it—" she starts to say, but Bucky's already lifting the hem of her ( _his_ ) shirt. Not even the sight of her bright red underwear distracts him from seeing the large, yellowing bruise marring her skin.

"It'll be gone in a couple hours," Milena promises. She winces again at the deceptively blank look on his face (it's not hard to pick up what he's feeling, even without being able to literally _feel_ it).

"It was my fault. He told me to dodge one way and I—"

"This is a bit aggressive for the first day." His voice is quiet, but the intensity in his eyes is unmistakable.

"Well, technically it's the second day," she says. By the way his lips purse, she knows that didn't help.

"Look, accidents happen. And it really was my fault," she insists. Her hands lead his away from the bruise and pull the shirt back down. "We'd been practicing the same thing for a while, so I told him not to go easy on me. I was tired enough that I confused what he said and _bam_. He felt so bad about it, he got me ice and everything."

Actually, he tossed her a mild "oops," and told her to catch her breath and shake it off before they tried it again. If the look on Bucky's face was anything to go by, he called her bluff.

"It's really not that bad. It doesn't even hua-ha-haaa…" Bucky lets her push his hand away from the tender spot, but the point is made and his raised brows say everything for him.

"That was mean," Milena glares at him. "It's just one stupid bruise. It'll go away by the time we finish watching the movie we started last night. And we're going to _finish it_ this time."

Despite his lingering dark thoughts, Bucky smirks.

"How do expect me to concentrate on anything else when you dress like this?" He gestures to her current outfit. Then his fingers skim up her bare thigh and hip, bunching fabric up to her waist. "You make my goddamn shirt look like…I dunno."

And all he really wants to do is rip it off.

"It's comfortable," she insists with a grin. To be fair, sometimes she does forget that he's from a time when women didn't lounge around in little more than their underwear. "But if you don't want me wearing it, you can certainly have it back!"

She starts to pull it off (it's big enough that she doesn't need to unbutton it), but Bucky's hands stop her. He even surprises himself.

"Keep it," he smirks. "You…look good in blue."

"All kinds of blue, or just navy blue?" she asks cheekily. She remembers from the online pictures she saw of the Captain America exhibit in D.C., his old Howling Commando uniform was a similar color. It's pretty much why she wore that dress to the party they had a few weeks back. She even tried to style her hair and makeup at least a little like the classic '40s look.

"Navy's good," Bucky says predictably. He tries to pull her close, but she stops him with her hands against his chest. She gives him a teasing, but firm look.

"Not until you shower."

* * *

They end up in her bed after dinner, watching _Red 2_ on her laptop. This is the kind of action flick Milena can get behind, although she wonders if the Russian assassins part of the plot is hitting a bit too close to home. But she doesn't sense any discomfort from him—only his focused attention to what's going on between Bruce Willis' character Frank Moses, a retired CIA agent, and his girlfriend Sarah, a civilian who wants nothing more than to be included in the dangerous situations Frank finds himself in while being targeted by old enemies.

Actually, the more Milena thinks about it, maybe this wasn't the best thing to watch. But they already saw the first movie with Sam and Steve, so it only made sense to watch the second one.

"You okay?" she asks when she sees Bucky frowning, his brows furrowed.

"This lady's gunna get herself killed."

"It's a comedy, Bucky. I highly doubt it."

"If this was real, she would."

"That's true for _most_ people in movies." He shoots her a look, but his frown stays in place, especially when one of Frank's gifts to Sarah (in a black velvet box and everything) is a shiny new gun, just in time for him to send her off to corner a potentially dangerous Iranian ambassador _alone_.

Now, Bucky usually enjoys movies. Even romance ones, as long as they aren't too sappy. But by the time the credits roll and Milena closes her laptop, he feels…unsettled. And he knows Mila's already picked up on it by the way her hand soothes up and down his arm—the one that can actually really _feel_ it.

"Well, it was _supposed_ to be a lighthearted comedy," she jokes. It gets the corner of his mouth to lift a little.

"Sorry," he offers, and leans back against the headboard with all her pillows behind him. "I know, it's just a movie."

"It's okay. I know what bothered you about it." Milena smiles slightly and rolls toward him, so she can slide her arms around his chest and rest her head against his shoulder.

"Look, right now this place is safe. But we both know one day, we'll be somewhere that isn't so safe," she says. Her hand grips his where it rests over her stomach. "Sometime soon, you'll have to trust me to protect myself."

"I do trust you," he says eventually. Somehow though, he knows she's right. The problem is, while he doesn't _want_ her to have to fight, he fears what would happen if she's ever taken from him. Especially if it was because of him.

.

.

.

Most of his sanctioned kills were single shots. Long distance, and clean. His targets would be dead before they realized they _were_ a target. That night, he dreams about a messier one.

_He hadn't missed, but it's not a confirmed kill._

" _The Asset can't be seen,"_ _they_ _told him. Except if he's required to give chase._

_The target tries to slip out the back of the rickety building, down the fire escape. He moves—jumps from the roof of the next building over and lands yards behind. He follows, snow barely crunching underneath his boots, and yet the target is just slightly faster. Even wounded and dragging the hand of someone smaller (possible second target), a dark braid of hair flies behind her. He'll wait to shoot until he can shepherd the target into a more contained area._

_She makes it easy for him by ducking into an alleyway._

_**Sloppy** _ _, he thinks._

_He turns the corner seconds after her and at first finds the alley empty, until he's forced to dodge a serrated knife that glints in the darkness. He has at least sixty pounds on the target, but he knows better than to underestimate, especially when the edge of her knife (and a few of her blows) eventually finds its mark in a long scratch down his arm, cutting through leather and barely slicing skin. She was trained well._

_It's all the focus he needs to disarm and stun her with a solid punch to the ribs. In a flash, his gun is in his hands._

_The target goes down after two slugs, point blank in the stomach._

_His grip on her leather jacket allows her to slide down the wall all the way to the floor. Her dark eyes stare up at him with cold resignation—until a whimper pierces the silence. The target's gaze shifts, and his does too. A child. A boy with round eyes filled with tears, staring at the target. Staring at him._

_**Scared. He's scared** _ _, is the thought that makes the Asset hesitate to raise his gun._

" _Go," the target barks in Russian. "Don't look behind you."_

_After a moment's hesitation, the child stumbles from behind the dumpster and disappears. The Asset looks back at his target, slumped against the wall. The snow underneath her is stained black._

" _Let him go," she begs him, even while struggling for every pained breath. "He doesn't…know HYDRA. I only…wanted to keep it that way."_

_Behind the mask and goggles, the Asset regards her with silent curiosity. He isn't too concerned about catching up to the second target, but something in the woman's eyes…no. Former agent. The agent makes him pause._

" _Please," she begs again. Her once cold eyes turn glassy brown, filled with things the Asset can't identify._

_He turns from her, pockets his gun while her eyes close, and makes his way out of the alley. The second target isn't hard to find, running down the nearly empty, snow-covered road. It takes less effort to corner down another alley, closed off at the end. Large eyes stare up at him. Scared._

_He hears_ _**their** _ _voices in his head, remembers the things they carved in there like a brand._

_The Asset can't be seen._

Bucky bolts straight up in bed, quickly realizing it's not his bed. Or the room he's come to think of as his.

"Oh, thank goodness," he hears, and feels gentle hands on his arms, her voice coaxing him to breathe. Finally he meets her eyes in the darkness and already starts feeling calmed by them, even before they start glowing. The longer he holds her hands, the more the panic fades, and eventually he's able to breathe normally. But the images are still at the forefront of his mind—snow and darkness and blood.

" _Can I ask you to do something?_ " Bucky asks it in Russian so he can hear her voice block out _theirs_. Milena looks up at him sadly.

"What do you need?" she answers in English, making him frown.

" _Make this one go away_ ," he says. He needs her to make the memory fade, at least for a few hours. " _Please._ "

It's her turn to frown, the sadness in her brown eyes growing, but he doesn't understand why they start filling with tears.

"I don't know if I should," she says. It surprises him to the point of confusion.

"I'm _asking_ you to," he insists.

"But would it _help_ you? _Really_ , in the long run?" Milena squeezes his hands, both in support and for emphasis. "Can you tell me what you saw?"

Bucky swallows past the painful ache in his chest. The thought of even trying to tell her makes his stomach churn.

"All this time, I've been making it worse, haven't I?" she says, shuddering as she blinks past tears. Bucky almost gapes in shock.

"The hell are you talking about?" he asks incredulously. Without her, he probably wouldn't be functioning.

"I know why you can't sleep, Bucky. I've _seen_ some of what they made you do," Milena says, "and yet you still can't talk to me about it, because you won't let yourself. And that's partially my fault."

Bucky lets go of her hands so he can rub at his tired face. When his hair falls into his eyes, he brushes it back in frustration.

"How the hell is that your fault?" he asks. He doesn't understand how she can blame herself for things _he does_. He leans forward and gently takes her face in his hands, but she's avoiding him and biting her lip the way she does when she's hiding something.

"I've been putting bandages instead of actually helping you get through this," she says. "I should've known _better_."

Bucky's heart breaks a little when the tears in her eyes finally start falling, but his thumbs wipe them away as soon as they do.

"If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be out building houses with Steve," he says. "Hell, I wouldn't even be here. I'd be frozen in a box downstairs."

When she flinches, Bucky represses a guilty sigh and kisses her forehead, even as his brows furrow again in confusion.

"I don't _get it_ ," he says earnestly. "Where the fuck is this coming from, Mila?"

He tries to get her to meet his eyes, but Milena continues to avoid him, until he tilts her chin up and gives her a firm look. "I can wait all night for this."

Milena wants to believe he's bluffing, but unfortunately, she knows just how stubborn he can be. She sighs. _It's going to be a long night_.

"I was in the library a few days ago…"


	11. Lies by Omission II

" _Games people play,_ _  
_ _You take, take it or you leave it_ _  
_ _Things that they say,_ _  
_ _Just don't make it right,"_

— _Alan Parsons Project, "Games People Play"_

**XI:** _**Lies by Omission II** _

"I don't need a chaperone, Steve," Bucky grouses. Steve matches Bucky's long strides down the hallway, but stays just behind him.

"I know you don't."

_Then why're you following me like you're my damn handler?_ Bucky wants to ask, but he keeps his mouth shut as frustration makes his anger from earlier today build all over again. Well, really it was angry thoughts that started last night (technically early morning). Thoughts that came back to him while sawing wooden beams at the village on autopilot, letting his mind wander back to them. It was Steve who finally broke his concentration after he powered through cutting 64 slabs of wood. Bucky had been just distracted enough to let his thoughts slip out.

Now it's nearly 6:00 p.m. and he's finally going to do what he's wanted to since 3:00 a.m. this morning.

"What do you think I'm gunna do, snap his neck?" he remarks, but his dark look suggests that it's not a thought that hasn't crossed his mind.

"Course not," Steve tries at levity with a faint grin. "I'm just moral support."

"Right," Bucky mutters.

But when they stop in the hall, mere feet away from the familiar office, he does hesitate. He looks back at Steve. For what, he doesn't really know. Steve seems to though.

"I can wait out here, or I can go. Whatever you want." He lays a hand on Bucky's shoulder the way they did when they were kids, up until they were twenty-somethings fighting side-by-side in a brutal war. But what gets Bucky the most is the look in Steve's eyes that says _you've got this_.

"You trust me?" he asks anyway. He can't help it and he doesn't exactly know why. Maybe it's because he still doesn't entirely trust himself.

"Not to go off the reservation? Yeah," Steve nods. His expression turns more serious. "This is your business. You don't need me to handle it. I'm just here for—"

"Moral support," Bucky finishes for him. His mouth quirks up at a smirk. "Yeah."

He lets out a breath and cards a metallic hand through his hair before looking back at the office door. He's not even sure the man is in there (but he heard some shuffling inside earlier, so it's a pretty good bet).

"No time like the present, right?" he murmurs.

* * *

Dr. Buhari isn't surprised by his client visiting his office the day before his scheduled appointment. He welcomes him in and asks whether Captain Rogers will be joining them.

Bucky glances to the blonde, who nods at him in support. Bucky returns it and pushes the door closed.

"No," he replies firmly.

"I see. Well, please make yourself comfortable," Buhari gestures to the twin chairs in front of his desk, clad in dark green fabric. Bucky is familiar with them, but he stays standing. His stoic look is answer enough. So Buhari shrugs and passively leans back in his own leather chair.

"You have something on your mind, I take it?" he asks. The corner of his mouth kicks upward when Barnes tilts his head to the side. His body is outwardly relaxed, but Buhari knows that says nothing for the man's mind; he's sure the Soldier is calculating his every move, every word.

He'd been warned that it would be unwise to play this game, but he's gambled before with bigger players than James Barnes for the sake of positive results.

And yet, Buhari can better imagine now what the Winter Soldier was capable of under HYDRA's training and control. He understands what Barnes is still capable of.

"I didn't tell you what I did so you could hurt the people I care about."

Bucky's voice is quiet and steady, and it pierces the silence that had fallen while he thought about where he would start. He didn't want to give any more control to this man by allowing his emotions to drive him, or by saying too much. Again.

"I don't—"

"No. No lies," Bucky says. Calm, but terse. He takes the two steps that allow him to brace his metal hand on the back of a chair. He grips the green fabric so hard that the threads start to give under the pressure.

"I want to know exactly what you said to her."

Buhari sighs and folds his hands on the desk in front of him. "Truly, I meant no harm. Milena clearly desires the best for you."

The way he explains how the conversation went echoes what she said to Bucky with tears in her eyes—something about how her judgment was clouded by her desire to take away the pain induced by his memories. How using her empathic abilities was like slapping on a band-aid rather than inciting real progress.

"This is what I told her," Buhari finishes with idle hand gesturing. "And yes, perhaps it was harsh, but the truth usually is."

"What about doctor-patient privilege?" Bucky asks flatly, even if the word "patient" leaves a bitter taste on his tongue.

"My doctorate is not in medicine."

"What we're doing here—it was supposed to be the same idea, _right?_ " Bucky counters.

"And yet I didn't discuss with her anything she didn't already know," the Wakandan points out, raising a brow. "Certainly nothing she didn't already suspect in herself."

Only the pursing of his lips and his metal fingers biting the rest of the way through plush and wood give away Bucky's anger, but it pushes him to do something that probably isn't very smart.

"If you try this again, you and I'll do more than talk."

Buhari pauses, but eventually he expels another sigh, this time in mild exasperation. "My efforts got you what you needed. You've asserted yourself as a man and individual once again."

Bucky straightens, releasing the chair. His eyes, dark as slate, stare the other man down.

"I won't be manipulated."

He let himself be swayed by the well-meaning opinions of the people around him to talk to this man, but Bucky knows now more than ever to trust his gut when it comes to trust.

"Now that you know yourself, do you _know_ what you want?" Buhari asks. Bucky just shakes his head. He wants this conversation to be over, and even if his muscles are fatigued from chopping wood all day, he might need a few rounds of pounding on something in the gym before downing a hot meal. So he tosses his reply over his shoulder.

"Whether I do or not isn't your business anymore."

With that, he's said all he needs to say. But Buhari stops him before he can rip the office door open.

"I will offer Mila my sincerest apologies."

Bucky stops, slowly turns on his heel. He doesn't want to hear his name for her on Tau Buhari's lips.

"For someone who claims to be honest, you seem pretty comfortable at jerking people around," he says. "You can call her Dr. Malikov."

The old man smiles faintly and leans back in his chair.

"So I may consider my message sent, then."

Bucky makes a quiet noise of disgust and walks out. The door swings shut with the force of his exit.

Steve looks up from his cell phone, pockets it, and pushes off from the wall he was leaning against.

"How'd it go?" he asks. His eyes show concern as he notices Bucky's frown and overall tenseness. But he lets out a deep breath and rubs the back of his neck to release some of the pressure. He feels freer, in a way.

"About how you'd expect," he says, and grins up at the blonde. "You up for a couple rounds in the ring? I know how much you like getting punched."

Steve smirks, and with a hand on Bucky's shoulder, the two start down a familiar path to the gym.

"Whether I am or not, you look like you need it, pal."

* * *

"Why is it whenever Steve's not here you get us all drinking?" Scott asks as he pours himself two shots of tequila in preparation for what's about to go down.

"You've only gotta drink if you can't answer the question," Sam counters with a grin. His brows rise in mischief. "Now come on, man. We all wanna know—"

"No we _all_ don't," Clint interjects and points to the cell phone in his hand (Sam's, of course). "The fuckin' app wants to know. Who the hell needs an _app_ to play Truth or Dare?"

"I'm surprised you know what apps are, Granddad," Sam teases. "And it's not Truth or Dare. It's Truth or _Drink_."

"Is this two-shot penalty really necessary?" Milena asks, looking down at all the glasses and liquor bottles on the table dubiously. Sam's grin widens.

"One shot every few rounds ain't gunna do nothing to anybody," he explains for the second time. "What's a drinking game without at least gettin' buzzed?"

"This is going to get us _trashed_ eventually," Clint remarks dryly, but his mouth pulls into a lazy smirk that says he's not really complaining.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea," Wanda murmurs. The last time she drank he hadn't been able to get out of bed the next day until two in the afternoon. Needless to say, her first hangover wasn't pleasant.

Milena leans over to Wanda's right.

"Most of his ideas aren't," she stage whispers, earning another brow raise from Sam.

"It's all right, I'm not scared," Scott says boldly, and gestures to the phone still in Clint's hand. "Bring it on."

"Fine. Here we go." Clint presses the button and waits for the question to pop up.

"Okay, we're startin' tame," he says flatly, rolling his eyes at actually having to ask this. "What's your weirdest or grossest habit?"

Scott leans his elbow on the dinner table. His eyes glimmer with humor.

"Easy. I don't have any."

That gets a scoff from Sam and a host of eye rolls.

"Man, you're the special kind of twelve-year-old that still believes in the Five-Second Rule."

Scott raises his hands in defense against all the disapproving head shaking and Milena's tsk-ing.

"It's not gross if it's a clean floor."

When all he gets is deadpan (and disbelieving) stares, he crosses his arms.

"I'm used to being broke, all right! I don't like wasting food!"

"No excuses," Milena shakes her head.

"And you leave your dirty-ass sneakers in the hallway _all_ the time," Sam adds.

"I just need to air 'em out a little after I work out," Scott says, his eyes shifting around sheepishly.

"You can't lock 'em in your closet like a normal guy?" Clint asks.

"Then my whole room would smell!"

"So we _all_ gotta die 'cause you've got odor issues?" Sam retorts.

"Come on, Sam. He's not the only one around here with disgusting habits," Milena jabs playfully. "I know it's you who leaves dishes in the sink with gobs of food still stuck to them."

"That was you?" Clint asks hotly. "Last night after dinner I had to scrape eggs out of my coffee mug for _fifteen minutes_."

Now it's Sam's turn to raise placating hands.

"All right, all right. Point taken. Let's just move on," he says, and Clint passes the phone to Scott. "Let's see what'cha got, Tic Tac."

"Okay, let's see," Scott says. His eyes light up in interest when the screen changes. " _Okay_."

"What?"

"What song do you, or _would_ you, play during sex?"

Sam leans back in his seat to think while Clint raises a wry brow. On his right, Wanda blushes a little.

"'Let's Get it On,' Marvin Gaye. Classic and oh-so timeless," Sam decides.

"Old school," Clint nods in approval. "Bit of an obvious choice, don't you think?"

"'Cause I'm black, or 'cause it's a classic sexy-times song?"

"'Cause it's an _overplayed_ sexy-times song. It's been used in every movie ever."

"Oh yeah?" Sam smirks. "So you and the wife listen to what, Rod Stewart?"

"Nah, man. She likes Foreigner," Clint shrugs with a smirk of his own. One that seems a little too lazy to Sam for the man not to have touched his shot glasses. "She likes when I sing with on _uuurgent, so uuuurgent—_ "

"Okay, okay _stop!_ " Sam insists, shielding his ears. "It's not even your turn and you win!"

"Yeah, thanks for ruining that fucking song for me," Scott mutters.

"Mila. Biggest lie you've ever told," Sam asks.

"Oh…I don't know." Milena looks down at the table, wracking her brain. Clint snorts indelicately. She senses his wry amusement and sends him a narrowed look.

"What?"

"Nothing," he replies innocently. He's been taking shots under the table since the game started, but that doesn't mean he's lost his edge. Just means he gives less of a fuck about what comes out of his mouth at a table full of people who'll only judge him for a little while.

"Just, ya know, figures how you think keeping lil' secrets from your creepy boyfriend doesn't count as lying."

"He's _not_ creepy," Milena answers almost automatically, but when the rest of it catches up to her in her head, she turns a meaningful look at him to _shut up_.

"What is he talking about?" Wanda asks, speaking up for the first time in a while. Usually she's content to watch the amusing scenes play out in front of her, but this just got interesting.

"It's nothing," Milena waves her off. Sam notices when her eyes shift to the side.

"That's not a 'nothing' face," he accuses. "Come on, can't be anything that bad."

"It's not. It's really not much of anything," she insists. "He agreed me taking self-defense and boxing lessons from Clint was a good idea."

"Yeah, but he doesn't know you wanna learn how to flip knives and catch bullets and shit," the archer says dryly. "He's certainly _qualified_ , if he wants the job."

"Does he?" Sam asks.

"He doesn't," Milena confirms.

"Doesn't want her an inch _near_ danger," Clint drawls. "If we're not too careful a strong wind'll blow her off a cliff."

Milena gives him a flat look. "He has his reasons, Clint."

"Has he shared those reasons with you?" Sam offers. Suddenly she can imagine him working at a VA hospital, being an understanding support for other war veterans and survivors like himself.

"More or less." But he doesn't really have to. She knows what he's afraid of; he just doesn't understand why she needs this. "When do we start with that, by the way?"

Clint looks over at her and sighs through his nose, shaking his head.

"That _is_ a bad idea, actually."

"Why? We've been at this for a while now and—"

"Because you're not ready," he snaps. "Why the hell do you wanna learn this shit anyway? You're a doctor, not an Avenger."

"I know that," she starts, but Clint interrupts her.

"Do you? Learn how to flip a guy over your shoulder and you think you're ready to get in a fight?" he asks. "You know what weapons are for, right?"

"I know they kill people, Clint," she answers tightly. "I know I'm not like the rest of you. But if someone else gets shot because of my fucking dead weight, then that's on me."

She downs the two shots of tequila one after the other since she can't be bothered with offering a real lie, and grabs the phone out of Sam's hand.

* * *

The game continues with Wanda remembering an embarrassing moment, back when her entire family was still alive to enjoy dinner all together. She was maybe nine years old blushing next to her brother's friend, Dmitri, and in a fit of mischief managed to make her giggle so hard that noodles came out of her nose. She hadn't talked to Pietro for two whole days after that.

Even though it was the first time most of them had ever heard her talk about her twin, Milena was glad that Wanda had a fond look on her face that was sincere, if not twinged with sadness.

When asked about the craziest thing he ever did drunk, Clint takes the two shots because, as Sam guesses, it was mission related ("from my SHIELD days"). He doesn't verify if Natasha was involved, but the roll of his eyes suggests yes.

"So where are Steve and Bucky, anyway? Their dinner's long cold," Milena says while munching on some potato chips. They already had dinner before they started drinking, but she thinks maybe snacking some will keep her head from going fuzzy.

Sam grabs his phone from Clint so he can read his texts.

"They're taking care of something," he says. "Steve said they'd be back later."

"How late is 'later?'" she asks. "Are they here in the palace, or still outside somewhere?"

"What, are they going on some kinda secret mission or something?" Scott asks dryly.

"This is Cap we're talking about," Sam deadpans.

"So 50-50?" the archer offers, raising a knowing brow. Scott shrugs.

"I'd say 60-40."

"In what direction?" Wanda asks while stealing some of Milena's chips.

"Depends what kind of moral injustice Cap needs to fix," Clint jokes. Sam rolls his eyes and turns to Milena.

"They're in the building," he tells her. "They should be down soon…wait, whose turn is it now?"

"Mine," Scott says. Clint takes the phone back and waits for the question.

"Biggest physical turnoff in your partner."

"Oooh, don't answer that," Sam suggests. "Not if you don't want this night to get back to her someday."

"Yeah, you're probably right," Scott winces. He downs both shots and waits for the rush to leave his head before he says, "in general though, I'd say hair."

"What kind of hair?" Clint retorts. Scott shakes his head and gestures flatly with his hands.

"Just hair. I'm not explaining."

"Nor do you have to, my man," Sam says.

After that the questions get progressively personal and hard to answer, so by the time Milena has to ask Wanda who in the room she would perform a sex act with, Milena takes pity on her and holds the phone close to her chest when she asks, in Russian, " _If you had to make out with someone here, who would it be?_ "

Wanda's eyes widen, but her lips curve into a disbelieving grin.

" _Seriously?_ "

"Did you ask her?" Scott asks in confusion.

"Hey, the hell is this?" Sam says, amused but just as confused as Scott and Clint.

" _Do they have to be in this room?_ " Wanda asks, making Milena infinitely curious. With a smile pulling at her mouth, she says, " _They have to be here in the palace though._ "

Wanda sighs. Her blush is only partially alcohol induced.

"Steve, then."

"What?" Sam nearly exclaims. "What was the question?"

Before he can grab for the phone, Milena hands it over to Wanda who presses the button for the next question, making the previous one disappear.

"You never said this had to be in English," Milena points out, grinning.

"Oh, come on. That's not fair."

"If you really _need_ to know, why don't you drink two shots of tequila and two shots of vodka?"

Sam looks over at Milena in shock, but almost immediately after starts chuckling.

"Damn, woman," he says. "You know, this is the real stuff. Not that cheap department store shit."

More than a little buzzed by now, she curls her hand over the tall bottle in front of her fondly.

"Of course," she smirks, and her accent thickens involuntarily. "My people and I know our vodka."

Sam shakes his head. As interesting a challenge as that is, he can't find it in himself to waste good liquor like that. By the time it gets back to asking her a question though, he revels at the opportunity to get her back with the "Truth" that pops up.

"So Milena," he leans toward her with a mischievous grin. She rests her elbows on the table and looks over at him, cheek in hand, in anticipation.

* * *

"Uh oh," Steve says in amusement when they get to the apartment doors. '80s music and laughter is obviously coming from the other side.

He and Bucky share a look.

"After you, warden," Bucky smirks slightly. The blonde sighs, only mildly exasperated.

"They better not be wrecking the place."

He pushes the door open and the scene is everything he expects to see (and fortunately nothing he'd been afraid of). None of them notice the two coming in with the music playing from a laptop on the table, but Bucky has to wonder why Steve's friend is too close to his girl with a suspicious-looking smirk on his face.

"What's your sweet spot?" he asks.

Bucky blinks. In his mild state of shock he watches her splutter a laugh.

"Is that _really_ the question?" she asks incredulously.

"Could be worse," Sam points out. "Now Truth or Drink, woman. Come on."

"What the hell?" Bucky finally manages to ask. It gets the group at the dining table to look over as Steve and Bucky make their way over. At the force of the blue-eyed glare pinned on him, Sam edges away from Milena with placating hands.

"Calm down, Robocop. It's just a game," Clint teases.

"Wanna play?" Milena grins up at Bucky when he lays a hand on her back.

From her too bright eyes and Barton's slurring words, he has a feeling he knows what tonight is going to entail.

"What's the game?" Steve asks. Since it's pretty obvious alcohol is involved, he's confident about his and Bucky's chances.

"Simple. If you don't wanna answer the question, you gotta drink," Sam explains. He looks over at Milena pointedly, making Bucky suspicious again.

"Oh!" she exclaims. "Yeah, forgot."

Bucky watches her down two large shots of clear liquid, one after the other.

_Impressive_ , he thinks, despite himself. He appreciates a woman who can toss it back.

After she catches her breath, she looks up at him with a knowing smile.

"You didn't want me to answer that, right?"

The corner of his mouth lifts in amusement as he bends down to press a kiss to her forehead.

"No," he agrees. As much as he wants a shower, he thinks he'll start with a hot meal and keep an eye on the game, just in case another one of these questions come up.

.

.

.

"You're one silly drunk," he tells her when he finally gets her through the bedroom door. Milena leans on his arm heavily even though she claims she can walk just fine on her own. He makes sure the door is closed before leading her to her bed.

"You know, I wish _you_ could be one so I can make fun o' you next," she slurs. He suppresses a chuckle down to a smile.

"I'm hot. Like, really _really_ hot," she complains, pulling at the collar of her shirt that feels too much like a second skin. "Usually that goes away."

"Wanna change?" Bucky asks. She nods and raises her arms, and he pulls the hem of her shirt up and over her head.

"Woo!" she breathes, and falls back on the bed with her arms spread out. She kicks out her legs a little since she doesn't have the motor skills to prop her feet up on his sculpted abs.

"Pants."

He raises an amused brow at her. "What?"

"Paaaants." She wants to feel air on her legs, and she does a few moments later, after he unbuttons her jeans and slides them off by the ankles, leaving her in her bra and underwear that she's ninety-seven percent sure doesn't match.

"You weren't much better at this part last time," Bucky muses. He grabs an oversized shirt he finds on the back of her desk chair. It's another one of his…

"I've been looking for this," he murmurs. Mentally shrugging, he glances down.

"Hey! Don't fall asleep, we're not done."

All he gets is a muffled grunt.

"Come 'ere." Bucky hooks his left arm around her waist and pulls her into sitting up, grinning a little when she shivers at the metal touching her skin.

"Cooold."

"Woke you up though, didn't it?"

For the first time he can think of, she sticks her tongue out at him. "Jerk."

"Yeah," he mutters while she snuggles into his chest and completely ignores his attempts to get his shirt on her. "I'm the jerk who's dressing you without trying to kiss you."

"Who said you couldn't kiss me?"

The move is so unexpectedly fast that it's all he can do to catch her by the waist and kiss her back with the same vigor. Her hands disappear into his hair, and he can't quite suppress a shiver of his own when her nails trail down the back of his neck and the same time she bites and soothes her tongue over his lower lip. When he moves to actually sit on the bed, she wraps her legs around his waist and plops comfortably on his lap, all the while stroking his jaw and arms and sides.

Not to say she's never taken initiative before, but he's surprised by the sudden aggressiveness. He can't say it's a turnoff though.

Before her hands can stray any lower, he envelops her in his arms and starts pressing lingering kisses down the side of her neck.

"You smell good," Milena tells him with a pleased grin. Like soap and spicy deodorant, even though she can't remember him leaving the game to shower. _Must've been when Sam had to talk about a sexual fantasy._ She has an idea of what his reaction would've been though.

Bucky smiles against her skin. He actually doesn't mind her like this; he likes how honest she is.

"I'm kinda glad you can't get drunk."

"Why's that?"

"I wouldn't want you t' answer the sweet spot thing either," she says as her hands start to drift down his back. "I like being the only one who knows about it."

Even though she can't see it with his lips still trailing her jaw line, Bucky quirks a brow in curiosity.

"Oh yeah? What is it then?"

"Well…" Milena lets her fingers ghost down the man's spine and stop at his lower back, then back up again, gently scraping over his skin. Bucky shivers again and his back arches slightly against her touch. He doesn't need to see her face to know that she's grinning in satisfaction at probably making him hotter than she was a minute ago.

" _Fair enough_ ," he whispers Russian into her ear in retaliation, and enjoys how her whole body freezes. " _Yours is a little more obvious._ "

With his flesh hand warm at the small of her back, all he has to do is breathe close to where her neck meets her shoulder, let his lips brush, and she already starts squirming, yet leaning into him at the same time.

"Okay, I really deserve this," she chokes out, running her fingers through his hair again. "Your hair is so looong."

Bucky's hands slide down her thighs and up again, trace the curve of her hips and around her waist. He loves how soft she is. While he's glad that she's being active now, he's also glad her workouts haven't taken that away.

"Time to cut it, I think," he says, and finally pulls back enough so he can see her face. "You trimmed it once."

"I'm actually not great with hair," she winces, but her eyes then light up with humor. "I could _try_."

She threads her fingers in the brunette strands and holds them out by the ends. Bucky looks down at her in amusement.

"Maybe not." He grabs her hands and lowers them. A glance downwards makes them both realize she's still basically naked.

"I dunno if we're ready for drunk sex," she admits with a giggle. He smirks and rubs the back of his neck while she grabs the shirt he found for her, without leaving his lap. Though the movement doesn't make it easy for him to relax.

"Hold on," he says, holding her in place by her arms. "Let me, uh…calm down."

"Oh." She bites her lip apologetically. "Sorry."

"I'm not gunna lie, I might've been ready," he admits with a small smile. But he feels a prick of guilt at the thought. There's still a nagging voice at the back of his mind that keeps reminding him that it's not okay to take advantage of any girl not in her right mind, even if it's _his_ girl. _Especially_ if it's his girl.

"Sorry," she says again, and kisses his palm. "I know you don't feel right doing… _stuff_ when I'm—"

"Never apologize for kissing me," Bucky says, with glint of mischief in his eyes that takes her by surprise. It puts a somewhat dopey smile on her face.

"Okay."

She lets go of his hand so she can pull the shirt on over her head, but Bucky stops her from letting it fall.

"Wait, what's that?" He inspects the dark mark on the right side of her ribs with a deep frown on his lips. Milena bites her lip again, this time nervously. Suddenly she feels a bit more sober.

"Just a…bruise."

Bucky sighs in annoyance. _Barton_.

"I should talk to him."

"No, no, Buck," she says, laying a hand on his arm. "You've done enough confronting lately."

He raises his brows at her in mild surprise.

"Steve told you," he guesses.

"Come on, I was there last night. I felt how angry you were," Milena shakes her head (regretting it immediately after when the world spins for a few seconds). "Wasn't hard to figure out…you don't need to defend my honor, or anything like that. I let him get to me…my fault."

"I defended myself," Bucky says. Yeah, he did threaten the man on her behalf, but it was as much for himself as much as it was for her. "I'm done being manipulated, by anyone."

Milena looks down, absently toying with a couple panels on his metal arm. One half of her brain nags at her, sounding suspiciously like Clint. Another, bigger part yells at her to keep her mouth shut and go on with her plan to train with Clint in secret.

_Maybe he won't get mad_ , one side reasons. The other isn't so nice.

_Or maybe he'll tell you how stupid you are for trying to be something you're obviously not._

"Are you sure you're just learning how to _evade_ an attacker?" Bucky asks. He has the hem of her shirt raised again, looking at the ugly bruise. She envisions Clint's elbow from earlier this afternoon.

"Y-Yes?"

At her uncertain tone, Bucky looks up at her with exasperation in his entire being. He sighs.

"Damn it, Mila."

"Bucky," she starts. He already knows a question is coming next before she even finishes. And whatever it is, he's not going to like it. Bucky knows by the way her light brown eyes soften and look at him like he's the only thing in the world.

"What?" he asks, despite himself.

"Can you teach me how to shoot?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics…sort of used in this chapter are from the song "Urgent," by Foreigner.


	12. Safety First

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a shorter one this time, but I hope you guys still enjoy it!

**XII:** _**Safety First** _

Narrowing her eyes in concentration, she wraps her fingers around it with a firm grip. It's heavy in her hands and while she's not exactly panicking, she's probably a little too wound up to be doing this.

" _Relax_ ," he instructs.

"I _am_ relaxed."

His hands are warm and supportive on her biceps, "Just ease up a little. It's making your whole body tense."

"Doesn't that mean I'm ready for anything?" Milena counters. A small grin finds its way onto her face, despite her nerves. Bucky smirks behind her.

"You'll think faster and with better judgment if the rest of you is centered, but relaxed." He nods when she loosens her grip, but still keeps the handgun leveled at the target in front of her.

They're the only ones in the shooting range except for Clint (who's all the way at the far side of the room with his headphones in and a quiver full of practice arrows), which Bucky's grateful for; he doesn't want her any more nervous than she already is.

"Don't lean forward _too_ much," he reminds her, and slides a hand around to press back gently at her chest. "You wanna be prepared for the kickback, but you should still be balanced."

"Okay," she expels a long breath to calm herself. They've gone over every aspect of her stance; he's drilled her over every single part of the .22 caliber gun from the front sight, to the rear sight, to the magazine and the safety, lastly to the trigger.

"Are you going to let me shoot it now?" Milena asks. But when she senses his silent resignation tinged with exasperation, she gets the distinct feeling that he just held back a sigh.

"If you're ready," he agrees.

Bucky steps back and allows her the space she needs to concentrate. After some more instruction on her aiming and breathing, three shots ring out in succession. She blinked all three times, but from what he can see, one managed to tear through the bottom right corner of the target.

Milena looks over at him with a triumphant smile and a lenient shrug, letting her hands fall a bit (but still careful of where the gun is aiming).

"At least I made the target."

Bucky forces a smile back and asks if she wants to try again. Her smile falters a little, but she listens with rapt attention while he talks her through firing until the barrel is empty. Then he teaches her how to reload, and watches her correctly get into her stance again.

He can admit she's a quick learner, even if she doesn't take to holding (or firing) a weapon naturally. There's still a part of him that's deeply uncomfortable with the whole situation, but with everything she's put up with him so far, Bucky is trying his best to be supportive and actually follow the advice Steve gave him yesterday.

* * *

"I get it, Buck. I do."

"She reminds me of you, in a way," Bucky sighs. He sets his hand of playing cards down for a moment and takes a swig of his beer, even if he has no hope of feeling it. The coldness and taste is good enough.

"Before you made it into the war. All the stubborn tenacity without the field experience."

"Like it or not, she's thinking ahead," Steve says. He also sets down his cards and lays a hand on Bucky's shoulder. "She's not just a civilian anymore. Really, she never was one."

Bucky lets out a huff of air and drags his hand through his hair. He knows that. Of course he does, but hearing it from _Steve_ of all people makes Bucky shake his head.

"Back then, before the war…every time I turned a corner and saw some kid getting the shit kicked out of them," Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. "Didn't matter if it was you or not. I'd get this knot at the back of my throat…"

Steve grins apologetically and tosses back some of his own beer.

"You help them out?"

"I had to," Bucky says, but he doesn't meet the blonde's eyes. Steve's face softens with a smile.

"You never told me that."

"Wouldn't have stopped you anyway," Bucky scoffs. "But you two should really talk more, 'cause I'm feeling it again."

Steve offers a shrug, but what gets Bucky is that little quirk of a grin on his face.

"Who says we don't?"

"Yeah? What about?" Bucky asks skeptically.

"Oh, you know," Steve smiles innocently. "Just been trading stories here and there."

That succeeds in getting Bucky curious as well as suspicious at the "innocent" tone of his friend's voice; it's almost too obvious, enough that the man could be trying to get him riled up over nothing.

"Really," he replies dryly. "Like what?"

"Remember Betty Miller?"

When the name clicks with the face he sees in his brain (pretty and blonde to be sure, but a bit snooty too), Bucky groans. He can't hold back an amused grin though.

"You told her about the street fair, didn't you?"

"You really should've stopped at the cotton candy," Steve shakes his head.

"We'd never seen a pie-eating contest in person before," Bucky defends himself.

"Didn't mean you needed to participate." Both grimace at the memory. Steve hadn't been all that happy to be the third wheel on a date his best friend had been pining for a month on end. Knowing he wanted to go to the street fair too, however, Bucky wouldn't speak of him walking around alone. Betty barely put up with it, but the cotton candy briefly pacified her.

She hadn't been impressed by the pie-eating contest either, didn't even want to watch. Neither did Steve, for that matter, but he stuck around for his friend's sake and watched him guzzle down not two, not three, but _seven_. _Seven_ cherry pies.

"Ya know, I'm sure Mila could make you a really good ch—"

"God, stop," Bucky warns weakly with a raise of his hand. He feels the knot at his throat getting bigger at the thought of _any_ kind of pie. "Cherries still make me sick."

Steve sighs and takes another long sip of his beer, "Poor Betty."

"How much you think she spent on that dress?" Bucky wonders. And he still feels guilty about ruining it. If he remembered right, it had been a pretty green that brought out her eyes. By the time she stormed off in a furious huff though, she'd been wearing the colors of Christmas.

"Nothing her dad couldn't replace," Steve shakes his head again with a rueful smile. "Didn't it take you two weeks before she'd even look at you?"

"Yeah," Bucky snorts. "Had it bad. I dunno why though, she was a snob."

Steve sends him a knowing look.

"She was the only girl you ever let call you James," he says, amused by the way his friend scratches the back of his head and blushes a little.

"Yeah well, she never talked to me again after that."

Steve shrugs. "Milena pretty much summed it up."

Bucky raises a curious brow.

"What'd she say?"

"'Her loss.'"

* * *

" _If you really want to stop stressing over this,"_ Steve had said, " _Make sure she learns from the best._ "

Bucky doesn't have anything against Barton, but he realized that the best way he can be sure of Milena's safety, in the future or otherwise, is if he finally shares this part of himself with her. No matter how much he wishes he didn't have to.

"Hey, you okay?" she asks, touching his arm. He looks up at her concerned frown, then down at the headphones and the gun she set down on the ledge (with the safety on, he notes with satisfaction), and back to her face.

"Yeah, sorry. Got distracted."

"All right, hold on," she stops him by lacing her fingers with his metal ones. "Look, I didn't ask you to do this to upset you. You were nice enough to listen to my drunken rambling, let alone humor me—"

"Mila," Bucky interrupts. He brings her hand to his lips and holds it there for a moment, so he can think.

"It's been hard for me," he says eventually, "to accept that you have to learn this shit, because of me. So much of your life has changed already, just because you met me."

Milena stays quiet and listens, even though there's so much she wants to say, and she hates how much burden he still feels over this.

"But I keep forgetting that it's not your first time starting over," Bucky says, smiling humorlessly.

Feeling a swell of affection for the man in front of her, Milena leans up on her toes so she can press a lingering kiss to his lips. When they part, she squeezes his metal hand that still envelopes hers.

"Honestly, I still don't want to think of having to actually shoot at someone," she confesses. "But that doesn't mean I can't imagine what it'll take for me to do it. Bucky, _everything_ about that scares me."

Bucky looks down at her with understanding, as well as lingering confusion.

"Then why—"

"Because I don't want to hold anyone back," Milena says quietly. Back at that airport in Berlin, he could've died protecting her from Vision's blast. Hell, he almost hadn't made it onto the Quinjet because he'd been distracted with worrying about her. She would never forgive herself if something happened to him…

There is another reason for all this though, a more selfish one she hasn't wanted to acknowledge. But he deserves the whole truth this time.

"And…I don't want to be left behind," she admits, and breathes out a weak, "…again."

"Again?" Bucky repeats. But it isn't long until his eyes light with pained comprehension. When he said goodbye to her in Bucharest, he really thought he was saying _goodbye_. Whether he was caught or not, he didn't expect to see her again, at least not for a very long time.

"I didn't want to leave," he says truthfully, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Milena nods solemnly.

"I know."

"I thought it was the best decision I could make to try and survive, and keep you from getting hurt," Bucky says. He tilts her chin up until her eyes finally meet his. "The last thing I wanted to do was leave you alone."

_He knows me too well now_ , Milena thinks. And she feels the sting of tears behind her eyes as she bites her lip.

She had been alone for a long time before she met Bucky. It had been a couple years short of a decade since she'd had a real connection with someone who wasn't a client, let alone someone who knew her real name. She hadn't realized how lonely she was until he became her friend.

_I don't want to be alone again._

"You don't have to make that face," Bucky sighs. He pulls her close and kisses her forehead, smiling when she burrows her face into his chest.

"I do when you say things like that," she says, even though her voice is muffled by his shirt.

" _Christ, blocking the door and everything_ ," Clint mutters as he passes the couple, bow and a now empty quiver in hand. "Oh, 'scuse me. I'd hate to stop the fucking _Notebook_ over here."

Bucky rolls his eyes, but keeps his hand at the small of Milena's back when she sniffs and turns around. She wipes her eyes and crosses her arms, despite the amused smile on her face.

"Barton, your wife must be a saint," she remarks wryly.

"She was," Clint allows with a grin. "Then she married me."


	13. Clarity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a Romanian translation for you:
> 
> "Noroc, copil. Mult noroc." – "Good luck, child. Good luck."

_"Oh, I can't break away I must have you everyday_  
As regularly as coffee or tea  
You've got me in your clutches and I can't get free  
You're getting to be a habit with me,"

_—Mel Torme, "You're Getting to Be a Habit with Me"_

**XIII:** _**Clarity** _

**NEW YORK CITY**

_Just a short trip to the Tower. Need some files from the old archives for a project_ , was his excuse that he's sure the Crayola-colored android saw right through. Maybe he just wants to spin in the leather armchair in his office—an un-birthday present if he remembers right. Can't remember who gave it to him though. Probably someone on his payroll trying to kiss-ass.

He tries not to think about the stupidly comfortable chair, because that would just take his brain to picturing the office upstairs—the _empty_ office—which brings him to the equally empty closet in the empty bedroom big enough for two, which now doesn't even house one. Not really.

"Can you hand me that?" Tony points the new and improved Dum-E toward a pile of loose tools. The robot's mechanics whir enthusiastically as it moves toward the workbench. Sure, the helping hand got destroyed when the Mandarin decided to take out half of Stark Tower, but Tony's become too sentimental in his old age to leave the little guy as scrap metal forever.

"Not that one. The other one," he rolls his eyes. "Pretty sure I programmed you to be able to tell one shiny object from another."

Dum-E's grapple-for-a-face ducks with a pitiful sound, but it inches towards the next tool over, hovering over it and timidly waiting on Tony for approval.

"No, to the left. The one with the hook thing-y at the end…there you go. Thought I was gunna have to get the Dunce cap. Again."

"Don't blame him for your manic sense of organization."

Tony's head swivels to the doorway, eyes widening involuntarily. His face only shows mild surprise, but his throat constricts.

"'S not my fault, really. I can't find anything unless I can see it…all over the place," he replies playfully, but his smile just misses the mark. "What're you doing here?"

In a smart and classy Chanel dress, Pepper Potts steps into the workshop on matching heels. She's growing out her bangs a little, Tony notes, but the ginger strands that frame her face while the rest of it is swept up into a neat pony tail is familiar. She looks amazing in anything (and as memory serves him, _anything_ ), but he really thinks she's trying to kill him.

He can only assume FRIDAY let her in ( _damn all the disloyal tech in this house_ ).

"What happened in Berlin?" she asks, and sits down in the second swivel chair in front of him with all the grace the CEO of a multibillion-dollar company should have.

"It's been months," he counters with a half-baked smile. "Come on. You can't be so knee-deep in expense vouchers that you haven't watched the news—"

"Oh, I know how you and Steve wrecked an airport in Germany; I went to see Rhodey in the hospital. I know all about you selling your soul to Senator Ross, but I want to hear it from you," Pepper demands. Her voice is soft though, her gray eyes earnest and kind, if not stern. "What happened, Tony?"

After a while, he finally sighs, and looks down at his hands. They've made a lot of things—a lot of things that hurt people, and a lot of things that helped people. He doesn't want to hurt people anymore, no matter what.

"I just wanted to do…the _right_ thing. The _**right**_ thing." Slowly but surely he works out his thoughts. It's hard to uncoil them from the data always roaming around in his head, shooting back and forth like neurons firing.

"I didn't want to be wrong…again."

"But the right thing for who?" Pepper asks gently.

"For everyone! For people not to get blasted sky-high when we're trying to do our job. Or fix…my…mess," Tony sighs again and rubs a hand over his bearded face. While he normally doesn't do straight up honesty, for her, _right now_ , he has to. Maybe her being here…at the very least it means she still cares. In the strongest, but weakened sad bits of his heart, he doesn't want to feel hope of any more than that ( _too late, idiot_ ).

"But yeah," Tony allows, leaning his elbow on the table. "Shifting responsibility on the world's safety sounded appealing at the time."

"You signed up for it, Tony," Pepper reminds him. "No one made you. No one can make you do _anything_ , not even Fury."

Tony wants to argue that she can make him do quite the variety of things, given the proper motivation and _leverage_.

But the playful quip dies when he sees that look on her face—the one that implores him not to relieve himself by making jokes, no matter how true they are.

"But that's why you had Steve, and Nat, who're both probably half way around the world in hiding because of this," she says. "I'm not saying it's all on you. I'd love to have words with Ross if my clearance level was high enough to rip him a new one…"

Tony smiles. He'd love to see that.

"I'm tired, Pep," he admits. "But something tells me this isn't even _close_ to over."

"It's not," Pepper sighs. But she does something that Tony didn't see coming.

She grabs his hand, caressing work-worn knuckles tenderly with slender fingers.

"Probably won't be for a long time," she says, but her lips quirk at a comforting smile.

"I want…I _can_ fix this," Tony whispers coarsely. He's got that dinosaur of a cell phone stashed in a safe place, where no one but maybe Vision could find it. Maybe he's having a psychotic break, but he's pretty sure it's just a brief bout of optimism.

Pepper squeezes his hand, reclaiming his attention.

"You can't fix everything," she says with a knowing smile. "But I guess it's not in you not to try…at this point, I doubt you could make it _too_ much worse."

Tony drops his forehead on their joined hands.

"Not. Helping."

* * *

**WAKANDA, AFRICA**

Bucky exits the lab with a heavy exhale, only to roll his eyes.

"You know you don't have to sit out here waiting for me."

"They find anything?" Steve asks with a smile. He pushes off the far wall and pockets the iPad Sam has been teaching him how to use with increasing efficiency. He's already won against Clint ten times at _Words with Friends_ with a high score of 647 (he'll be taking Steve's turn for washing the dishes for the next two weeks).

"Nothing," Bucky shrugs. But the way he says it has Steve's smile dimming.

"If they have more tests to run then they haven't exhausted every possibility," he says. The two start down the hall, past the lab where T'Challa's elite team of scientists were no doubt recording and continuing to analyze the new data they just got from their primary patient (they said "patient" instead of "subject" for both obvious and courteous reasons). Bucky's beginning to wonder if they're wasting their time.

_Not that I don't love spending my day off with wires attached to my face_ , he thinks sourly. He'd honestly rather be outside continuing their work in that little village. Even if it sometimes felt like the sun was going to melt off his bones, it's good, honest work, for good people that sent their best craftsmen and laborers to help their modest team with the building process.

The other good thing is Bucky doesn't have to hide his arm under long sleeves, thanks to the modifications one of T'Challa's engineers came up with; with a hidden trigger under one of the plates in his arm, holographic imaging makes the whole thing look normal. It just didn't make him feel normal when he can still feel the difference.

"How much longer are you gunna give me the 'be patient' speech?" Bucky asks. His eyes are downcast, hands in the pockets of his jeans while they wait for the elevator. Steve's gaze is as unflinching as his will.

"As long as it takes."

Bucky knows he genuinely believes that, but that's kind of the problem.

"It's been months, Steve."

"They did what they did to you for years. Undoing all of that isn't gunna happen in the blink of an eye."

"You think _I_ don't know that?" The two get on the elevator and Steve manages to press the button for their floor, despite his mounting (but silent) frustration. Bucky's, however, is pretty apparent.

"I'm just saying," he says quietly, "…How much longer do we have until they find us here?"

"If it comes to that, you know we'll be ready," Steve replies. They've been working on a contingency plan with T'Challa since they first settled in at the palace, one that all in the team are well aware of. Bucky hopes it never becomes a reality, but he's always been a realist (if not a slightly jaded pessimist now).

Steve knows in the grand scheme of things, being found by the US government (or HYDRA, or anyone else trying to hunt them down) might be the least of their problems. Thor's ominous prediction about the near future occasionally rears in the back of Steve's head and keeps him from sleeping at night; the thought that there's something or someone out there pulling threads much bigger than the state of one country, or even this planet—someone who probably understands these Infinity stones a hell of a lot better than the Red Skull or Loki ever did.

Steve stops Bucky once they get off the elevator.

"Whatever happens, we'll stick together and fight," he says eventually. _Just like we used to…_

"Even if it's against the people you used to fight for?" Bucky shakes his head. "Everything you've given up, just to…"

"All I've ever wanted to do is be of service to people who need it," Steve says quietly. "But I think I've been wearing the suit and shield so long I've forgotten how to be just…me. Skinny kid from Brooklyn-me."

Bucky smiles at that, despite himself.

" _That_ dumbass kid?" he says, a playful glint in his gray-blue eyes. "Looks to me like he never left."

Steve rolls his eyes and watches his friend walk down the hall and enter the boisterous living room, where Sam and Scott sit arguing in front of the TV. He didn't know how they managed to rope Wanda into playing video games, but he'd like to see them try to wrangle Bucky into the fray.

He can tell the man is still in pain, still wrestles with himself every day to be the person he wants to be. Steve can't be completely sure, he's no psychologist (maybe he'll talk to Milena about it sometime), but he thinks what Bucky secretly wants, deep down, is to be a hero again; maybe not a Howling Commando, or an Avenger, but something like it.

Whatever Bucky wants to do when all this is over, Steve hopes he can help his old friend do it.

* * *

"It doesn't make any damn sense! You just started playing this game two rounds ago!" Scott exclaims. Wanda hides an amused smile behind her book while she stretches her legs on the couch.

"Dude can't barely work a toaster oven, but he can drag race a damn car," Sam mutters. "Real life, TV screen, what's the difference?"

Bucky expertly schools his expression into one of indifference, but he gets amused satisfaction from knocking Sam's cart off the Rainbow Bridge and throwing a red shell at Scott's, making him careen off-course.

_**Aren't you skilled pilot too?** _

The sudden telepathic presence in his head surprises Bucky enough that he misses a curve, allowing Scott to retake the lead.

"Aw, yeah!"

_Whose side are you on?_ Bucky asks in annoyance. She totally did that on purpose.

_**Sam is unsurprisingly competitive. He'll feel better if he believes he still has a chance of winning.** _

Wanda's mouth curves into a smirk that Bucky can't see with her being a blur in his peripheral vision, but he can tell she's enjoying messing with them.

_Hmm._

_**You seem to approve.** _

_You're getting better at reading people. Learning your team is as important as learning anyone else._

Ever since he started helping Clint with Mila's training, he's also been helping Steve with Wanda's unfinished training when Clint is too busy with his primary student. What Wanda has in raw power and intuition, she lacks in tactical skill. But Steve and Natasha had been doing a good job with her up until the recent dissolve of the Avengers.

_**That favor you asked me about—I finally got it back from Scott.** _

Bucky becomes distracted enough that he only wins first place by a couple seconds, followed closely by Sam and Scott.

_Do I want to know why he had it?_ Bucky asks.

… _ **Probably not. But I disinfected it thoroughly.**_

"I hate Rainbow Bridge," Scott grouses. "Can we do Daisy Cruiser?"

"Whatever, man. You know I'm gunna beat you anyway," Sam says.

"Well 'scuse _me_. Who beat you at the level with the little ice people? Uh, me."

"Man, you only won 'cuz Robo Cop over here threw a banana _right_ in front of the damn finish line."

Scott leans back into the couch with his arms above his head, controller in his lap as the stats roll across the big screen.

"It's fine. Not everybody can keep up in a cart race of little weird monsters and survive with his dignity intact," he muses. Sam gives him a wry look.

"At least you appreciate the stupidity of two grown men playing a kid's game on a _Wii_ ," he says. "Least if it was on a good old-fashioned Nintendo 64, it'd be a more nostalgic instead of sad."

"Don'tcha mean three…" Scott looks over to where Bucky had been sitting on his right, only to find that corner of the couch empty, save for the nothing short of abandoned third player controller.

"I hate it when he does that creepy freakin'…ninja-Houdini shit."

Sam rolls his eyes; the statement is delivered with lots of Scott's vague hand gesturing.

Wanda disappeared too, he notices.

"Think the word you're looking for is 'assassin' shit," he deadpans. Scott picks up his controller again and begrudgingly goes back to game start so he can change the setting to two-player.

"Ah, but 'assassin shit' is two words."

"And 'ninja Houdini' isn't?"

"Not technically. It's a compound word. Compound words have hyphens; hyphens are _always_ important," Scott points out sagely.

"More important than this foot I'm about to shove up your ass if you don't shut up?"

"Hey, you asked. Don't shoot the grammar messenger…see, that's two words."

Sam doesn't look away from the game, but it's all he has in him to hold in a tired sigh.

"How the hell're you still alive."

* * *

Milena taps her chin for the umpteenth with her pen, absently chewing on the cap and curling a random lock of hair around her finger—habits she couldn't help when she couldn't figure something out. Alone in her room, she's been sitting at her desk with her laptop and a few measly pieces of paper in front of her. It's nearly been half an hour and all she's barely put down a few words.

She turns the music playing on her laptop down a little (she's been hooked on Frank Sinatra for a while, and it's actually been helping with her English pronunciation to sing along), but even that doesn't help her think of what exactly she wants to write—what she wants to _say_.

Sighing, she holds her pen between her teeth and buries her hands over her face and into her hair as she rests her elbows down on the desk.

" _Chto vy delayete?_ "

The sudden warm lips and voice just under her ear make her skin prickle—she jumps in her seat and gasps in surprise, making the pen fall out of her mouth and clatter on the desk.

"Having a heart attack is what I'm doing, you jerk!" Milena laughs and swings her hand blindly behind her.

She misses (shocker).

Her fingers only sweep through his hair, although recently she's been quick enough to get a good fistful of it to yank on in retaliation. _Hmm._ But her smile warms when Bucky's muscled arm, now tanned from weeks under a sweltering African sun, curls around her. When his mouth presses to the back of her neck, she tries to suppress a pleasant shiver.

"You should be able to feel me coming, even if you can't _hear_ me," he remarks, but there's an underlying rebuke in there somewhere that Milena picks up on, not just in his tone.

"I was…busy. And you were obviously _trying_ to sneak up on me," she replies defensively. She turns off Frank Sinatra's crooning from her laptop and tidies up her pen and papers into a neat stack and reminds him, "You were trained to hide your thoughts and emotions."

If it were Scott or Sam, no problem…especially Scott. The man projects his emotions _loudly_ , even if it's just pure, cackling amusement at middle-aged men falling off his kids' slip-n'-slides on old clips of _America's Funniest Home Videos_.

"You have good instincts. Usually," Bucky says, smiling behind her. He doesn't see her roll her eyes, but he can imagine it. "But especially when you're alone, you should get used to keeping your awareness open."

Milena sighs and leans her head back against him. She knows he's right. No matter how much they feel secure and safe right now, this is just one more aspect of her "training" that she has to get the hang of. After what happened in Romania, she realized that literally _anything_ could happen; the day before the bombing in Vienna, she had gone to the office at work, and Bucky had gone to the construction site as usual. They had dinner together and watched _Hello, Dolly!_ for their Friday movie night. The next morning he'd shown up on her doorstep and said goodbye, half an hour before the police broke her door down with loaded weapons and no questions asked.

So yeah, anything could happen.

"How did it go today?" she asks, suddenly remembering why he'd slipped out of bed early this morning with a few murmured words about "some new tests," that the scientists were "chasing a lead."

"Fine," Bucky says, but she can feel mood darken a bit to think about it. She pries his arm from around her shoulders and swivels around in her chair so she can talk to him for real, face to face. But instead, she ends up blanking in surprise, her mouth falling open in a small "o." She stands up and takes his appearance in fully.

" _Wow._ "

Bucky smiles somewhat sheepishly as her hand reaches up and brushes through his hair—a bit longer in the front than in the back, but still much shorter than it was before.

"You let Wanda near you with a pair of scissors?" she teases. Really she isn't surprised. The two had bonded in a way Milena hadn't expected, but she's sure it had to do with how he and Steve had been helping her continue her own training for the past few weeks. All in all, Milena has been happy to see him slowly letting other people in besides her and Steve.

" _She has steadier hands than you_ ," he retorts in Russian. He remembers her first try all too well (he tried to fix the uneven parts himself and ended up doing a pretty decent job, if he says so himself).

"I dissected too many cadavers in med school to know I have very steady hands, _and_ a weak stomach, thank you very much," Milena quips. Hence psychiatry and not _surgery_.

She tucks some of his soft brown hair behind his ears, still marveling at how being able to really see his blue eyes seemed to brighten up his whole face. He doesn't look like the unkempt, repressed man she first met.

"She just has more experience with… _hair_. Apparently her brother's was much more unruly than yours."

Bucky grasps her wrist with his flesh hand, stroking his thumb against her skin. She smiles, recognizing his tentative touch and the uncertainty in his eyes for what it is.

"I do like it…it's just different," she muses. "You almost look like another person."

He sighs a little shakily.

"Good." Even if he doesn't entirely feel like his old self, he's glad he looks at least different from the Soldier. When he moves to sit on the edge of her bed, she follows his lead.

"You feel lighter," Milena smiles up at him, raising her hand to his cheek. The pads of her fingers brush against stubble. _At least he kept_ _ **this**_ , she thinks in amusement.

Bucky's mouth tugs upward. Well, if he does, with her he sometimes forgets (if just for a little while) that he's still kind of a mess.

"Oh! Guess what!" she grips his arm excitedly. "I'm approved to start helping out in the staff clinic, starting on Monday…under a new identity just in case, but still."

Bucky smiles; he knows she's wanted to do something productive for a while now. As long as she's safe, he's all for it.

"That's great."

"I think T'Challa still feels bad for the whole Buhari thing," she says, frowning. "He did recommend him."

Bucky's smile dims too, and Milena starts to feel the prickle of darkness in his thoughts again. She rubs his bionic arm soothingly.

"I'll be taking normal 8:00 to 5:00 shifts," she says. "You won't be smothered by me anymore."

"Who said you're smothering me?" Bucky asks. Frowning, he lets the back of his metal fingers brush against her cheek cautiously, to see if he can actually feel it. Her skin is clear and he knows from memory that it's soft. Through the metal it's still not the same, but the way she leans into his touch is.

"This is the first time I've gotten alone with you in days," he realizes.

"It's okay. You all have been so busy," Milena shrugs. "Look, we could watch a movie, maybe? It'll be like our old Friday nights in my apartment, except we have this nice bed to lie on instead of my ratty couch."

She gets up from the edge of the bed to go for her laptop still on the desk, but Bucky's hand around her wrist stops her. Though she looks back at him questioningly, she lets him tug her back to him and stands between his knees, her hand still held in his.

"There was nothing wrong with the couch," he smiles fondly. After a ten to twelve hour shift, he used to find it much too easy to close his eyes and nap while Milena worked, or read or watched TV on low volume for his benefit. And that was just another thing Bucky never understood about her—how she could let a man like him into her home and take up space on her couch all the damn time. But whatever sleep he got, he remembers it being restful, usually.

Bucky hadn't known it then, but he knows now it's because she was there. Just knowing she was there, in case of anything, had been a calming balm to his too active mind.

_Well…except for that one time._ His smile deepens into a small smirk.

" _Mel_ loved it, remember?" he teases.

Milena's brows furrow in confusion for just a moment, but then she pushes away from him as she lights up with a familiar fury in her eyes.

"That's not funny."

"Come on, it's a little funny," he hedges. "It was just a m—"

"First of all, that mangy vermin was not a mouse. It could've been a raccoon for how fat it was," she corrects.

"Aw, it wasn't hurtin' anything," Bucky grins. Milena eyes him narrowly with a playful scowl, secretly amused at the very New York sounding twist to his words. She can only assume it's the way he, and probably Steve, used to talk way back when.

"I'm sure it _got_ that fat from all the times I caught it raiding the pantry. I don't know how many times I had to throw everything out!" She shakes her head and remembers her frustration at finding little holes in her cracker and cereal boxes, and not so little "gifts" behind the canned food.

"I'll still never forgive you for _naming_ it." And after one of her favorite singers, too.

Bucky raises placating hands against her accusatory finger pointing, but he can't resist winding her up a little. "I mean, come on, Mila. It practically lived under the couch."

Was almost like a house pet, in a way. He'll never forget that night he was rudely woken up from a doze by Milena, crawling over him to avoid the big black furry thing bolting out from under the furniture.

"I probably told the landlord about that damn rat a hundred times! He found every excuse under the sun not to pay for an exterminator," she exclaims, gesturing widely with her hands the ways she does when she gets excited.

"I set up those traps for you, remember?" Bucky says.

"Yes, and a big help that was," she remarks dryly. Milena heard one go off one night, only to find the trap ratless and also cheeseless, _the little shit_.

"Well, you can't say I didn't try to help." Bucky smirks and gently tugs her back to him by the hips. She crosses her arms, though her smile betrays her amusement.

"Oh yes, how can I forget how the deadly assassin broke my nice lamp chasing a rat?" she says tartly, and taps his chest for emphasis, "Back. Under. The couch."

He rolls his eyes, but allows her to tease her fingers through his shorter hair.

"Super reflexes, indeed," she mocks playfully, making Bucky sigh. Sometimes he misses how simple it was then. After a while of living in that congested little city, it was easier to forget that people were looking for him. Easier to just…be.

"Someday," he says, but he hesitates, wondering if he has a right to say…but Bucky feels he owes her too much to do anything but promise.

"Someday," Bucky starts again, looks up into her eyes so she sees as well as feels how serious he is. "We can go back, if you want to."

Milena blinks in surprise.

"To Romania?"

He nods and brushes his thumbs against her skin, where his hands have slid under the hem of her blue sweater.

"What's left for me there, Bucky?" she shakes her head.

With a sinking droop to his shoulders, he realizes she's right. It's not like she would be able to pick up from where she left off, but if at least to visit…

"What about Emil and Lina?" he asks.

"I'm actually writing them a letter," Milena points over to the haphazard pile of stationary on her desk. "I know it's a bit old fashioned but…if you don't mind, I'd like to explain everything to them. They were so good to me, ever since I first got there, and—"

"That's fine, Mila," he stops her gently. "I know they meant a lot to you."

"I know you have a soft spot for them too," she says pointedly. "But yes…they deserve to know the truth."

Milena strokes Bucky's cheek and smiles. "I would love to see them again one day…but I don't need you to promise me anything."

It still amazes him how well she can read him, even more so now. But he's learned just as much about her.

"Then can you promise me something?" he asks, grabbing her hand in his. Milena tilts her head questioningly.

"Ever since we met, you tried to help me be myself, even when I didn't really know who that was," Bucky says. "Speaking and watching things in English might've helped that, but that doesn't mean speaking in Russian hurt that either…you don't have to keep shoving down who _you_ are just to try and protect me."

Milena sighs heavily, dropping her forehead lightly onto his. Thanks to the red book T'Challa recovered from Zemo, _both_ of them know the words that trigger Bucky's programming. But that doesn't mean that one day she won't make a mistake—one that might take him away from her for good.

"Until they figure out how to remove HYDRA's hold on you, you aren't safe. Not even from me," she says plainly. But the fact that he cares that much over something so small momentarily stuns her.

"You really thought about that?" she asks, leaning back so she can see his face. When Bucky looks up at her, she feels his sadness and underlying burn of anger that surfaces anytime HYDRA gets brought up, along with something else that shines in his eyes.

"I just…I want you to be happy."

Any lingering regrets she might've still held about her decisions fade in the way her heart swells with affection for this man, and brings the telltale sting of tears to her eyes.

While she did lose her anonymous little world, she's gained friends—good people she cares about, and she thinks care for her too. And she fell in love with a good man, despite what the rest of the world may think.

"I am with you," Milena says, smiling even though her eyes are glassy and brimming. His smile and answering kiss are warm enough to make her toes curl as his fingers slide up under her sweater, gliding over her skin. Her own dip under his shirt collar, nails grazing his shoulders and up the back of his neck. She smiles against his lips when she feels him shiver and grip her hip tighter.

Even though they've been intimate for more than a couple of months now, they're both still sensitive to each other's touch, still learning one another even though they've adopted a kind of rhythm that works for them; Bucky knows he occasionally has to slow down for Milena, whose experience is always heightened more than a normal person's because of what she feels from her partner. At the same time, he's learned what she likes, what warms her up just long enough for him to ease off, just to work her up even more at the next and drive her completely crazy.

It's a teasing game she both loathes and loves when he does it, pushing her to the brink until she nearly resorts to dirty tactics of "handsiness" to make him finish it. But like tonight, it usually ends with both of them rendered incapable of moving an inch out of bed for a while.

So as Milena stares up at the ceiling trying to recover her breath, as well as her sense of self and stop her vision from blurring, Bucky's head rests against her shoulder as he breathes just slightly more normally. His metal arm is draped across her stomach, cooling her skin, while he plays with the tangled ends of her dark hair.

"One of these days you're gunna make me pass out," she breathes. Once he realizes she actually said something, he chuckles belatedly.

"I'm serious. I think I lost feeling in my toes for a minute."

"If it makes you feel better, this was a better workout than sparring with Steve earlier."

"Is that a euphemism?" she teases. Bucky's only reaction, again belated, is a grimace and a roll of his eyes.

"…Because I might be fine with that if it is. I mean, he's known you much longer than I have."

"Shut up," he groans, pressing his forehead harder against her shoulder. To his chagrin (and amusement) her giggling doesn't stop.

"Sure you're not getting…" she snickers, "some star-spangled hanky-panky on the side?"

Muttering a couple choice phrases in Russian, Bucky prods his metals fingers in sensitive, as in, very ticklish places that make her flinch and squawk in protest.

When her now full-bellied laughter finally dissipates into giggling sighs, Milena wipes the tears of mirth from her eyes and cards her hand through his sweaty hair.

"Before you, I hadn't been…em… _intimate_ , with someone in a long time," she admits.

"Really?" he asks, genuinely curious. "How long?"

Milena smiles, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead.

"Over a year, I think. Maybe two…even then, it wasn't mind-blowing, by any means."

"That _is_ a long time."

"Not as much as it was for you," she points out. "But yeah. Bit of a dry spell."

"Would it be selfish to say I'm okay with that?" Bucky asks playfully.

" _Very_ selfish." Milena rolls onto her side, half onto his chest so she can reach _his_ sensitive ribs and abs. "How will I punish you?"

His protests are drowned out by her cackling as she makes him squirm, and eventually laugh just as loudly and obnoxiously as her.

_I want this_ , he thinks. He remembers what the old Bucky wanted—to make it to the end of the war and go home, get a job and a dame and start a real life with Steve there as he always was to support him. And yet…Bucky never actually saw that picture happening for himself. Then he never got the chance. But the only parts about that picture that still exists is his best friend, who's still his best friend, despite everything, and a woman he doesn't think he can live without.

Maybe he'll never be the same, but maybe being… _okay_ again, isn't as impossible as he thought it would be this morning, or the days before.

Meanwhile next door at 2:30 in the morning, Sam adds yet another pillow to smother his ears with as more giggles echo from behind the adjoining wall.

_I've gotta get me some goddamn earplugs._

* * *

**BUCHAREST, ROMANIA**

A grayed man in his older sixties stands on the bottom steps in front of his apartment complex, smoking to the band of a cigarette and melting in the Romanian autumn heat, even this early in the morning. Sweat pouring down his neck and forehead, he dabs at his face fruitlessly with an old fashioned, but plain handkerchief.

Cars blur past, as do people. The only way they smile is if they're looking down at their cell phones, but never at the invisible old man on the steps of a decaying building that got renovated, thanks to the unforeseen publicity (and wreckage) it got earlier this year. He doesn't get waves or smiles or good conversation to start his day anymore.

Flicking the final bud of his cigarette, he goes back inside and almost forgets to pick up his mail and newspaper on the way back up to his apartment, where his wife is still making breakfast. He sits heavily at the table with a sigh, puts today's paper to the side and starts sorting through the junk mail.

"Did my coupons come in?" Lina asks. The portly woman doesn't bother looking up from the multiple pots she's stirring.

Emil tosses junk to the side and puts the pile of bills (sighing at its height) to another.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean, you have the mail right in front of you?" she says.

"Yes, well, I'm not done yet so leave me be, woman!" he retorts, but stops short at a small, unmarked envelope that had no return address. He thinks it odd, but tears it open anyway. As he gets past the first few lines, his jaw slackens and his eyes widen in shock.

"All right, food's ready," Lina calls from the kitchen. When she doesn't get an answer, she sighs and finishes turning off the stove before serving two bowls.

"You know, it wouldn't kill you to help me out around here once in a…what is that? What are you doing?"

With a somewhat sad, but satisfied smile, Emil hands the letter to his wife and leans his chin into his hand.

"Oh my God," Lina gasps. "Oh God…she's all right. Oh, thank God…they're both all right."

Though his eyes sting, Emil nods to himself, still smiling.

" _Noroc, copil. Mult noroc_ ," he muses.

* * *

_I'm sorry it's taken me this long to contact to you, and I'm sorry neither of us could say goodbye. I know what you must think of Lukas now (though I've come to know him as Bucky), and of me, but what you saw on the news wasn't the whole story. All you have to do is look up his name to see that he was a hero, and still is one today even if he can't see it himself._

_The Winter Soldier was a tool used by terrible people to do terrible things, and Bucky Barnes is not that tool._

_He and Steve Rogers saved the world, and the Avengers that stood with them helped make that happen._

_The man you knew was lost, and hurt, and running from his past. In your kindness and generosity, I think you both knew that. And I think you know that I was too._

_I can't tell you where we are, but for now we're safe, and we're together. I hope to see you again and tell you everything in person, but for now, goodbye._

_And thank you, for everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read this story and gave me your feedback. I really appreciate it! I'm working on a companion to this, a collection of one-shots pre-post Captain America:Civil War. I'll be posting on my fanfiction.net account first before I upload it here, but for those of you who read there too, you can look me up (same username).


End file.
